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THE 



MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B 



I, 








THE 






MISCELLANEOUS WORKS 






OF 

• 






OLIYEE GOLDSMITH, M.B. 






Wttf) a aSrief ffltmoit at fyt &titi)jm 






ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS WOOD ENGRAVINGS. 






CONTENTS. 






CITIZEN OF THE WORLD; VICAR OF WAKEFIELD; 






POEMS; PLAYS; ESSAYS, &c. 






MULTUM IN PARVO. 




1 








LONDON: 






ANDREW MOFFAT, SKINNER STREET, SNOW HILL; 






D. A. BORRENSTEIN, ST. ENOCH SQUARE, GLASGOW. 






M.DCCC.XLI. (oj 








— _j 









|g4~ i 



CONTENTS. 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



Memoir of Goldsmith, . • • - ■• 

Author's Preface, ' . . • 1 

LETTERS. 

LETTER 

1. Introduction — A character of the Chinese 

Philosopher, .... 2 

2. The arrival of the Chinese in London — His 

motives for the journey— Some description 
of the streets and houses, . . ih. 

3. The description of London continued — The 

luxury of the English— Its benefits — The 
fine gentleman — The fine lady, . 3 

4. English pride — Liberty — An instance of 

both — Newspapers — Politeness, . 4 

5. English passion for politics — A specimen of 

a newspaper — Characteristic of the man- 
! ners of different countries, . . 5 

6. Happiness lost by seeking after refinement — 

The Chinese philosopher's disgraces, . 7 

7. The tie of wisdom only to make us happy — 

The benefits of travelling upon the morals 
of a philosopher, ib. 

8. The Chinese deceived by a prostitute in the 

streets of London, ... 8 

9. The licentiousness of the English with regard 

to women — A character of a woman's man, 9 

10. The journey of the Chinese from Pekin to 

Moscow — The customs of the Daures, ib. 

11. The benefits of luxury, in making a people 

more wise and happy, . . 10 

12. The funeral solemnities of the English— Their 

passion for flattering epitaphs, . 11 

13. An account of Westminster Abbey, . 12 

14. The reception of the Chinese from a lady of 

distinction, . . . .14 

15. Against cruelty to animals — A story from 

the Zendevest of Zoroaster, . . 15 

16. Of falsehood, propagated by books, seemingly 

sincere, ib. 

17. Of the war now carried on between France 

and England, with its frivolous motives, 16 

18. The story of the Chinese matron, . 18 

19. The English method of treating women caught 

in adultery — The Russian method . 19 

20. Some account of the republic of letters in 

England, . . . . 20 

21. The Chinese goes to see a play, . . 21 

22. The Chinese philosopher's son made a slave 

in Persia, . . . 23 

23. The English subscription, in favour of the 

French prisoners, commended, . ib. 

24. The venders of quack medicines and nostrums 

ridiculed, .... 24 



25. The natural rise and decline of kingdoms, 

exemplified in the history of the kingdom 
of Lao, . .... 25 

26. The character of the Man in Black, with 

some instances of his inconsistent conduct, 27 

27. The history of the Man in Black, . 28 

28. On the great number of old maids and bache- 

lors in London — Some of the causes, 30 

29. A description of a club of authors, . 31 

30. The proceedings of the club of authors, ib. 

31. The perfection of the Chinese in the art of 

gardening — The description of a Chinese 
garden, . . . 33 

32. Of the degeneracy of some of the English 

nobility — A mushroom feast among the 
Tartars, .... 34 

33. The manner of writing among the Chinese — 

The Eastern tales of magazines, &c. ridi- 
culed, . . . . .35 

34. Of the present ridiculous passion of the nobi- 

lity for painting, ... 37 

35. The philosopher's son describes a lady, his 

fellow-captive, . . . .38 

36. A continuation of his correspondence — The 

beautiful captive consents to marry her lord, 39 
37- The correspondence still continued — He be- 
gins to be disgusted in the pursuit of his 
wisdom — An allegory to prove its futility, ib. 

38. The Chinese philosopher praises the justice 

of a late sentence, and instances the injus- 
tice of the King of France, in the case of 
the Prince of Charolais, . . . 41 

39. The description of true politeness — Two let- 

ters of different countries, by ladies falsely 
thought polite at home, . . 42 

40. The English still have poets, though not ver- 

sifiers, . . . . . '43 

41. The behaviour of the congregation in St 

Paul's church at prayers, . . 44 

42. The history of China more replete with great 

actions than that of Europe, . . 45 

43. An apostrophe on the supposed death of Vol- 

taire, . . . . .46 

44. Wisdom and precept may lessen our miseries, 

but can never increase our positive satis- 
factions, . .- . . 47 

45. The ardour of the people of London in run- 

ning after sights and monsters, . . 49 

46. A dream, .... 50 

47. Misery best relieved by dissipation, . 51 

48. The absurdity of persons in high station pur- 

suing employments beneath them, exem- 
plified in a fairy tale, ... 52 

49. The fairy tale continued, . . .53 



CONTENTS. 



50. An attempt to define what is meant by Eng- 

lish liberty, . . .53 

51. A bookseller's visit to theiChinese, . 56 

52. The impossibility of distinguishing men in 

England by their dress — Two instances of 
this, ... . . .57 

53. The absurd taste for obscene and pert novels, 

such as Tristram Shandy, ridiculed, . 58 

54. The character of an important trifler, . 59 

55. His character continued, with that of his 

wife, his house, and furniture, . 60 

56. Some thoughts on the present situation of 

affairs in the different countries of Europe, 61 

57. The difficulty of rising in literary reputation, 

without intrigue or riches, , . 62 

58. A visitation dinner described, . . 63 

59. The Chinese philosopher's son escapes with 

the beautiful captive from slavery, . 64 

60. The history of the beautiful captive . 65 

61. Proper lessons to a youth entering the world"; 

with fables suited to the occasion, . 67 

62. An authentic history of Catharina Alexowna, 

wife of Peter the Great, . . 68 

63. The rise or decline of literature, not depen- 

dent on man, but resulting from the vicis- 
situdes of nature, ... 69 

64. The great exchange happiness for show — 

Their folly, in this respect, of use to society, 70 

65. The history of a philosophic cobbler, . 71 

66. The difference between love and gratitude, 72 

67. The folly of attempting to learn wisdom by 

being recluse, .... 73 

68. Quacks ridiculed — Some particularly men- 

tioned, . . . . .74 

69. The fear of mad dogs ridiculed, . 75 

70. Fortune proved not to be blind — The story 

of the avaricious miller, . . 77 

71. The shabby beau, the Man in Black, the 

Chinese philosopher, &c. at Vauxhall, ib. 

72. The marriage act censured, . .79 

73. Life endeared by age, ... 80 

74. The description of a little great man, . 81 

75. The necessity of amusingfeach other with new 

books insisted upon, ... 82 

76. The preference of grace to beauty ; an alle- 

gory, 83 

7". The behaviour of a shopkeeper and his jour- 
neyman, .... 84 

78. The French ridiculed after their own manner, 85 

79. The preparations of both theatres for a win- 

ter campaign, . . . .86 

80. The evil tendency of increasing penal laws, 

or enforcing even those already in being 
with rigour, . , . .87 

81. The ladies' trains ridiculed, . . 88 

82. The sciences useful in a populous state, pre- 

judicial in a barbarous one, . . 89 

83. Some cautions on life, taken from a modern 

philosopher of China, ... 90 

84. The anecdotes of several poets, who lived and 

died in circumstances of wretchedness, 91 

85. The trifling squabbles of stageplayers ridi- 

culed, . . . . .92 

6. The races of Newmarket ridiculed — The 

description of a cart-race, . . 94 

87. The folly of the western parts of Europe in 

employing the Russians to fight their battles, 95 



88. The ladies advised to get husbands— A story 

to this purpose, . . .95 

89. The folly of remote or useless disquisitions 

among the learned, . . .97 

90. The English subject to the spleen, . 98 

91. The influence of (climate and soil upon the 

tempers and dispositions of the English, 99 

92. The manner in which some philosophers 

make artificial misery, . . 100 

93. The fondness of some to admire the writings 

of lords, &c 101 

94. The philosopher's son is again separated from 

his beautiful companion, . . ib. 

95. The father consoles him upon this occasion, 102 

96. The condolence and congratulation upon the 

death of the late king ridiculed — English 
mourning described, . . - . ib. 

97- Almost every subject of literature has been 

already exhausted, . . . 103 

98. A description of the Courts of Justice in 

Westminster-hall, . . .104 

99. A visit from the little beau — The indulgence 

with which the fair sex are treated in seve- 
ral parts of Asia, . . . 105 

100. A life of independence praised, . 106 

101. That people must be contented to be guided 

by those whom they have appointed to go- 
vern— A story to this effect, . 107 

102. The passion for gaming among ladies ridi- 

culed, . . . . 108 

103. The Chinese philosopher begins to think of 

quitting England, . . . ib. 

104. The arts some make use of to appear learned, 109 

105. The intended coronation described, . 110 

106. Funeral elegies written upon the great ridi- 

culed — A specimen of one, . Ill 

107. The English too fond of believing every 

report, without examination — A story of 
an incendiary to this purpose, . 112 

108. The utility and entertainment which might 

result from a journey into the East, 113 

109. The Chinese philosopher attempts to find 

out famous men, . . . 114 

110. Some projects for introducing Asiatic em- 

ployments into the courts of England, 115 

111. On the different sects in England, particu- 

larly Methodism, . . .116 

112. An election described, . . 117 

113. A literary contest of great importance, in 

which both sides fight by epigram, 118 

114. Against the Marriage Act — A Fable, 119 

115. On the danger of having too high an opinion 

of human nature, . . • 120 

116. Whether love be a natural or a fictitious 

passion, .... 121 

117. A City Night-piece, . . .123 

118. On tl:e meanness of the Dutch at the Court 

of Japan, . . . • . ib. 

119. On the distresses of the poor, exemplified in 

the life of a private sentinel, . 124 

120. On the absurdity of some late English titles, 126 

121. The irresolution of the English accounted 

for, 127 

122. The manner of travellers, in their usual re- 

lations, ridiculed, . . . ib. 

123. The conclusion, . . . ^128 



& CONTENTS. V 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


CHAP. PAGE 


CHAP. PAGE 


1. The description of the family of Wakefield, 


18. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child 


in which a kindred likeness prevails, as 


to virtue, . . . . .153 


well of minds as of persons, . .130 


19. The description of a person discontented with 


2. Family misfortunes — Tlie loss of fortune only 


the present government, and apprehensive 


serves to increase the pride of the worthy, 131 


of the loss of our liberties, . .155 


[ 3. A migration — The fortunate circumstances 


20. The history of a philosophic vagabond pur- 


of our lives are generally found at last to be 


suing novelty, but losing content, . 157 


of our own procuring, . . 132 


21. The short continuance of friendship amongst 


4. A proof that even the humblest fortune may 


the vicious, which is coeval only with mu- 


grant happiness, which depends, not on cir- 


tual satisfaction, ... 161 


cumstances, but constitution, . 134 


22. Offences are easily pardoned where there is 


5. A new and great acquaintance introduced — 


love at bottom, ... 164 


What we place most hopes upon generally 


23. None but the guilty can be long and com- 


proves most fatal, . . . 135 


pletely miserable, . . .165 


6. The happiness of a country fireside, . 136 


24. Fresh calamities, . . . 1GS 


7. A town wit described — The dullest fellows 


25. No situation, however wretched it seems, but 


may learn to be comical for a night or two, 137 


has some sort of comfort attending it, 168 


8. An amour which promises little good fortune, 


26. A reformation in the jail — To make laws 


yet may be productive of much, . 138 


complete they should reward as well as 


9. Two ladies of great distinction introduced — . 


punish, .... 169 1 


Superior finery ever seems to confer supe- 


27- The same subject continued, . , 170 


rior breeding, .... 140 


28. Happiness and misery rather the result of 


j 10. The family endeavour to cope with their bet- 


prudence than of virtue in this life ; tem- 


ters — The miseries of the poor, when they 


poral evils or felicities being regarded by 


attempt to appear above their circum- 


Heaven as things merely in themselves 


stances, .... 141 


trifling and unworthy its care in the distri- 


11. The family still resolve to hold up their heads, 142 


bution, .... 172 


12. Fortune seems resolved to humble the family 


29. The equal dealings of Providence demon- 


of Wakefield — Mortifications are often 


strated with regard to the happy and the 


more painful than real calamities, . 144 


miserable here below — That from the na- 


i 13. Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy ; for he 


• \ ture of pleasure and pain, the wretched 


has the confidence to give disagreeable 


must be repaid the balance of their suffer- 


advice, .... 145 


ings in the life hereafter, . . 175 


14 Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that 


30. Happier prospects begin to appear — Let us 


seeming calamities may be real blessings, 146 


be inflexible, and fortune will at last change 


15. All Mr BurchelPs villainy at once detected — 


in our favour, . . . 176 


The folly of being over wise, . 148 


31. Former benevolence now repaid with unex- 


16. The family use art, which is opposed by still 


pected interest, . . . 179 


greater, . . . . 149 


32. The conclusion, . . . .183 


17. Scarcely any virtue found to resist the power 




of long and pleasing temptation, . 151 


I 


POl 


SMS. 


The Traveller, * 185 


Stanzas on Woman, . . . 199 


The Deserted Village, . . .188 


Song intended for She Stoops to Conquer, 200 


The Haunch of Venison, . . . 192 


Song, . ' . . . . . ib. 


Retaliation, . . „ . .193 


Another, ..... ib. 


The Hermit, .... 195 


Another, . . . . . ib. 


The Double Transformation, . . 196 


Stanzas on the taking of Quebec, . . ib. 


The Logicians refuted, ... 197 


Epitaph on Dr Parnell, . . . ib. 


A new Simile, in the manner of Swift, . 198 


Epitaph on Edward Purdon, . . ib. 


Description of an Author's Bed-chamber, 198 


Prologue from Macrobius, . . . ib. 


The Clown's Reply, . . . .199 


Prologue to Zobeide, ... 201 


Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, . ib. 


Epilogue spoken by Lee Lewis, . . ib. 


Elegy on Mrs Mary Blaize, . . ib. 


Epilogue to Comedy of The Sisters, . ib. 


On a Beautiful Youth, struck blind bv lightning, ib. 


Epilogue spoken by Mrs Bulkley and Miss Catley, 202 


The Gift, ..... 'ib. 


Epilogue written for Mrs Bulkley, . 203 



CONTENTS. 



The Good-natured Man, 



PLAYS. 

. 203 | She Stoops to Conquer, 

ESSAYS. 



1. Description of various Clubs, . 246 

2. Specimen of a Magazine in Miniature, . 249 

3. Asem, an Eastern Tale ; or a Vindication of 

the Wisdom of Providence in the Moral 
Government of the World, . . 250 

4. On the English Clergy and Popular Preachers, 252 

5. A Reverie at the Boar's-Head Tavern, East- 

cheap, .... 254 

6. Adventures of a Strolling Player, . 259 

7. Rules enjoined to be observed at a Russian 

Assembly, .... 262 

8. Biographical Memoir, supposed to be written 

by the Ordinary of Newgate, . ib. 

9. Friendship, . . . .263 
10. National Concord, .... 264 



ESSAY 

1 1 . Female Warriors, . . 

12. National Prejudices, 

13. Taste, 

14. Cultivation of Taste, 

15. Origin of Poetry, 

16. Poetry distinguished from other Writing 
17- Metaphor, .... 

18. Hyperbole, .... 

19. Versification, .... 

20. Schools of Music, Objections thereto, 

Answers, .... 

21. Carolan the Irish Bard, 

22. On the Tenants of the Leasowes, 

23. Sentimental Comedy, 

24. Scottish Marriages, 



and 



266 
267 
270 
273 
276 
279 
285 
286 

287 



291 
£92 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



The Story of Alcander and Septimius, . 294 

Some Particulars relative to Charles XII. 295 

Happiness in a great measure dependent on 

Constitution, . . . .296 

On Justice and Generosity, . . 298 

Some Particulars relating to Father Freijo, 299 



On Education, . . . .299 

On the instability of Worldly Grandeur, 302 

The Sentiments of a Frenchman on the Temper 

of the English, . . . .303 

An Account of the Augustan Age of England, 304 
Custom and Laws compared, . . 307 



MEMOIR OF -GOLDSMITH. 



He who investigates the life of a scholar must generally be content, as our 
author observes,* with a "dry detail of actions" which seldom distinguish 
him from the rest of his race. Very different, however, was the career of 
Goldsmith, wiiich presents a series of strange vicissitudes, and is replete w r ith 
matter of the most entertaining and curious kind. 

Oliver Goldsmith was born, November 29, 1728, at a place called Pallas, 
belonging to the parish of Fornoy and county of Longford, in Ireland. His 
father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a clergyman of the Established Church, 
enjoyed a living in Westmeath, ancf has been faithfully represented as the 
village preacher, whose benevolence is signalized in one of his son's most 
popular poems. He had seven children — two daughters and five sons — of 
whom Oliver was the second; and as high hopes had been formed of the 
eldest brother, he received a classical education, which bore so hard upon the 
father's narrow means, that he could only propose to qualify Oliver for some 
mercantile employment. 

With this view he was instructed in the rudiments of common learning 
by a village pedagogue, who had served, as quarter-master, in the armies of 
Queen Anne, been stationed in Spain, and travelled over a considerable part 
of Europe. This man possessed a romantic turn of mind, and used to enter- 
tain his young scholar with descriptions of the scenes he had viewed, and 
the adventures he had experienced. Hence those early and profound 
impressions which were made upon so ardent a pupil, who manifested a 
wandering and unsettled tendency, which never left him till the termination 
of his valuable life. 

At the age of seven or eight, Oliver began to shew signs of spirit and 
genius which induced his family to place him at the school of Athlon e, about 



* Life of Dr Parnell, 



MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. 



five miles from home, which he quitted, in two years, for a seminary at 
Edgeworth-town, and was placed, in June, 1744, at Dublin college. Thought- 
less and unguarded, here he formed some improper acquaintance of both 
sexes, and foolishly admitted them to partake of a supper and a dance in his 
rooms. This circumstance reached the ears of his tutor, a man of harsh 
temper and violent passions, who abruptly entered in the midst of all their 
gaiety, which he soon extinguished, and not only proceeded to the highest 
excess of personal abuse, but concluded with manual chastisement before all 
the company. 

The disgrace attending this cruel treatment drove the poor lad to despair ; 
and he gloomily resolved not only to forsake all his friends, but to try his 
fortune, totally unknown, in some other country, where a sense of the 
shame he had endured might cease to be a cause of affliction or reproach. He 
accordingly disposed of his books and clothes, and abandoned the college, but 
still imprudently lingered about Dublin, till a single shilling was all he had 
to set out with upon his travels. Bending his course towards Cork, where 
he intended to take shipping for any place that might offer, he supported 
himself on the trifle in his pockets for three days, then parted by degrees 
with the apparel off his back, sometimes fasted for twenty-four hours 
together, and found a handful of gray peas, given him by a girl at some wake, 
the most comfortable meal he ever made. 

By this time he began to feel sensible of his folly, and desirous, like the 
prodigal son, of returning to an indulgent father. Being not far distant from 
the paternal dwelling, he contrived to communicate with his brother, who 
came to him, clothed and carried him back to college, and effected a partial 
reconciliation with his tutor, though, as may be easily imagined, they were 
never afterwards on cordial terms. 

Soon after this event his worthy father died, and the relatives who endea- 
voured to supply his loss, wished him to prepare for holy orders. He con- 
sented, with much repugnance, to adopt the clerical profession, but was 
rejected by Synge, bishop of the diocese, either on account of his irregularities 
at college, or because his professional studies' were found incomplete. He 
then passed as private tutor into the family of a neighbouring gentleman, 
where he continued twelve months ; but being averse to the necessary con- 
finement, and having saved thirty pounds, he purchased a stout horse, and 
abruptly quitted that part of the country. 

After an absence of six weeks he returned unexpectedly to his mother's 
house, penniless, and mounted on a miserable pony. Naturally offended as 
his mother felt, at conduct so mischievous and absurd, still a reconciliation 
was effected by medium of his brothers and sisters, who seem to have enter- 



MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. 



tained for him the most unalterable attachment. When required to account 
for the loss of his money and linen, and the horse on which he had departed, 
he told them that he had been at Cork, where he sold his steed, and had paid 
some master of a vessel for his passage to America. The winds, however, 
proving contrary for three weeks, he had amused himself by seeing every 
thing curious in and about the city ; that while engaged on an excursion into 
the country, the winds proved fair, and his friend, the captain, had set sail 
without him. Continuing in Cork till he had only two guineas left, he then 
bought Fiddle-back, as his pony was denominated, and rode home, a journey 
of an hundred and twenty miles, with the only crown which remained in his 
possession. Half this little stock he had even bestowed upon a poor woman 
in his way, who solicited relief for herself and eight children. From a chance 
friend he obtained the loan of three half-guineas, and finished the narrative 
of his wild exploits, by quaintly observing, that as he had struggled so hard 
to return home, the whole family should express their joy to see him. 

To keep so truant a disposition within the bounds of sobriety and order, it 
was resolved to engage him in the study of some profession, and the law 
being fixed upon, he set out for London, to establish himself at the Temple. 
He reached Dublin, furnished with fifty pounds for the expenses of his 
voyage and journey, but lost the whole of that sum to a sharper, who had 
tempted him to play, and was obliged to throw himself again upon the tend- 
erness of his poor mother for commiseration and assistance. Once more 
received into favour, it was settled that he should study physic at Edinburgh 
where he accordingly fixed himself about the close of 1752, or the commence- 
ment of the following year. 

Though not inattentive, for some time, to the lectures of Monroe, and 
other professors in the medical line, yet his health became considerably 
injured, and his pockets were frequently drained, by the scenes of dissipation 
in which he too often mixed. Having, however, gone through the usual 
courses, he prepared for removal to Leyden, where his friends consented 
that he should finish his professional studies. For this purpose he rather 
singularly embarked on board a Scottish ship bound to Bordeaux, with " six 
agreeable passengers," as the master called them, in his company. When 
but two days at sea, a storm drove this vessel into Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 
when Goldsmith and his new associates all went ashore, to refresh them- 
selves after the fatigue and peril they had experienced. While full of mirth, 
the next evening, a detachment of grenadiers broke into the room where 
they were assembled, and put the whole party under arrest. The strangers, 
it seems, were Scotsmen in the French service, for which they had been 
endeavouring to raise recruits in their native country. Goldsmith endea- 



MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. 



voured anxiously to prove his innocence, but was committed to prison with 
the rest, and found great difficulty in getting off, after a fortnight's detention. 

But here Providence interposed for his welfare. The ship proceeded to 
Bordeaux before the term of his imprisonment expired, was wrecked at the 
mouth of the Garonne, and not a soul survived the disaster from which he 
was so mercifully protected. 

At Newcastle he found a ship ready for Rotterdam, on board of which he 
embarked, reached his destination in nine days, and travelled by land in 
safety to Leyden. During his stay, which lasted a year, he studied chemistry 
and anatomy under eminent professors ; but the seductions of the gaming 
table were irresistible, and made heavy inroads upon those hours which his 
improvement exacted. Determined to quit Holland and visit the adjacent 
countries, he is said to have set out on his travels with only one clean shirt 
and no money in his pocket, a dilemma to which he reduced himself by pur- 
chasing some curious and expensive flowers, for a valued relation, without 
reflecting on the inadequate state of his finances, which the present com- 
pletely exhausted. 

Trusting to fortune for resources, and resolved to make the tour of Europe 
on foot, he rambled through Flanders, France, Germany, Switzerland, and 
Italy, supporting himself by means so similar to those of the wanderer in his 
Vicar of Wakefield, that most of the following particulars are supposed 
to be what he experienced: — "I had some knowledge of music, and now 
turned what 'was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. 
Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards night-fall, I played one of 
my most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging but sub- 
sistence for the next da} r . I once or twice attempted to play to people of 
fashion, but they still thought my performance odious, and never rewarded 
me even with a trifle." 

His classical learning procured him also entertainment at many monas- 
teries, especially those of the Irish friars. Another resource was likewise 
afforded to our forlorn pilgrim. In various foreign universities, convents, &c. 
upon certain da} T s, theses are maintained against any casual disputant, for 
which, if the champion opposes with tolerable expertness, he may claim a 
gratuity in money, a dinner, and lodging for the night. Of such advantages 
Goldsmith availed himself, and " Thus," says he, " I fought my way from 
convent to convent, examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so 
express it, saw both sides of the picture." 

At Padua he resided six months, and if ever he took any foreign degree, 
which is doubtful, it was probably in this ancient school of medicine. The 
death of a good and generous uncle, to whom he was solely indebted for 



MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH 



support, compelled him to return home, and he landed at Dover, just as the 
war broke out, in 1756. 

He had still the tide of adversity to stem, and arrived in London reduced 
to extreme distress. Even his attempts to be admitted usher at an academy 
failed at first, for want of testimonials, and when that humble appointment 
was procured, he bitterly felt the miseries to which it exposed him. 

Pressed by the want of immediate subsistence, Goldsmith applied, during 
this interval, to several apothecaries for employment as a journeyman, but his 
thread-bare coat, uncouth figure, and Hibernian dialect, produced repeated 
refusals. At length a chemist, moved by compassion, or perhaps surprised at 
his medical knowledge, is said to have taken him as an assistant, in which 
situation he was discovered by Dr Sleigh, a fellow-collegian, who most 
affectionately supplied him with pecuniary relief. He was thus enabled to 
resume his original profession of physic, and established himself on the 
Bankside, Southwark, whence he afterwards removed to the vicinity of the 
Temple. Here, with fewer fees than patients, he found leisure to cultivate his 
literary abilities, and while endeavouring to support himself between his 
prescriptions and his pen, undertook the charge of a classical school, kept by 
the Rev. Dr Milner, of Seckham. Through the interest of this person he was 
appointed physician to one of the factories in India ; and to prepare for his 
equipment he drew up proposals to print, by subscription, his Present State 
of Polite Literature in Europe, but soon after gave up the design on which it 
was founded, though his general resolution of travelling to Asia continued 
unchanged. This desire unfolded itself soon after the accession of George the 
Third, when Goldsmith petitioned the Earl of Bute for a salary, that he 
might proceed to Aleppo, and acquire, for the benefit of Great Britain, a 
knowledge of any arts peculiar to the East. This visionary project was 
condemned or neglected, and the author remained at home to distinguish 
himself by a rapid and popular display of unsuspected genius. 

In 1758, he contracted an acquaintance with the proprietor and publisher 
of the Monthly Review, who invited him to become a writer in that periodical, 
to which he contributed for seven or eight months. His Essay on Polite 
Literature was published next year by Dodsley, soon after which he wrote 
the Vicar of Wakefield, his Letters on English History, &c. but did not rise to 
decided eminence till, in 1765, that fine poem, The Traveller, had established 
his fame. 

Encouraged by success in almost every line of composition, he ventured to 
court the dramatic muse, and, in 1768, brought forward at Covent-Garden 
theatre his ingenious comedy of the Good-natured Man, which Garrick, very 
little to his credit and taste as a critic or a manager, rejected. While engaged 



MEMOIR OF GOLDSMITH. 



upon this play, he wrote his celebrated series of histories, at the instance of 
the booksellers ; and added largely to his reputation, in 1769, by the Deserted 
Village, an ethic poem that has no rival for vigour, feeling, and sweetness, 
among the noblest productions of any age or clime. 

The History of the Earth and Animated Nature formed one of his last 
publications, and though a want of original views on the subjects introduced 
may be alleged against it, still that defect is more than atoned for by 
abundance of striking reflections, and great descriptive power. Such, indeed, 
is the value of the services rendered by Goldsmith to the cause he adopted, 
that the praise of an active and judicious pioneer in the paths of natural 
history, has never been denied him. His classifications, though not altogether 
orthodox, are still respected, and modern science has done little more to 
improve upon his plan, than by enriching it with such notices as progressive 
knowledge, during the lapse of the last sixty years, has been enabled to 
furnish. 

The life of this meritorious and agreeable writer was terminated on the 4th 
of April, 1774,/ by a low fever, arising from despondency of mind at his 
embarrassed circumstances. A handsome monument has been erected to his 
memory in Westminster Abbey ; and Dr Johnson, who wrote his epitaph, 
has justly observed, that he left no species of writing untouched, and none 
that a sublime and versatile genius failed to adorn, 

E. B. 



GOLDSMITH'S 



MISCELLANEOUS WORKS, 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 



The schoolmen had formerly a very exact way 
of computing the abilities of their saints or 
authors. Escobar, for instance, was said to have 
learning as rive, genius as four, and gravity as 
seven. Caramuel was greater than he. His 
learning was as eight, his genius as six, and his 
gravity as thirteen. Were I to estimate the 
merits of our Chinese philosopher by the same 
scale, I would not hesitate to state his genius 
still higher; but as to his learning and gravity, 
these I think might safely be marked as nine 
hundred and ninety-nine, within one degree of 
absolute frigidity. 

Yet, upon his first appearance here, many were 
angry not to find him as ignorant as a Tripoline 
ambassador, or an envoy from Mujac. They 
were surprised to find a man born so far from 
London, that school of prudence and wisdom, 
endued even with a moderate capacity. They 
expressed the same surprise at his knowledge 
that the Chinese do at ours. 'How comes it,' 
said they, 'that the Europeans, so remote from 
China, think with so much justice and precision? 
They have never read our books, they scarcely 
know even our letters, and yet they talk and 
reason just as we do.' * The truth is, the Chinese 
and we are pretty much alike. Different degrees 
of refinement, and not of distance, mark the dis- 
tinctions among mankind. Savages of the most 
opposite climates have all but one character of 
improvidence and rapacity; and tutored nations, 
however separate, make use of the very same 
methods to procure refined enjoyment. 

The distinctions of polite nations are few; but 
such as are peculiar to the Chinese, appear in 
every page of the following correspondence. The 
metaphors and allusions are all drawn from the 
East. Their formality our author carefully pre- 
serves. Many of their favourite tenets in morals 
* Le Comte, vol. i. p. 210. 



are illustrated. The Chinese are always concise, 
so is he ; simple, so is he. The Chinese are grave 
and sententious, so is he. But in one particular 
the resemblance is peculiarly striking. The Chinese 
are often dull; and so is he. Nor has my assist- 
ance been wanting. We are told in an old 
romance, of a certain knight-errant and his horse 
who contracted an intimate friendship. The 
horse most usually bore the knight ; but in cases 
of extraordinary despatch, the knight returned 
the favour, and. carried his. horse. Thus, in the 
intimacy between my author and me, he has 
usually given me a lift of his eastern sublimity, 
and I have sometimes given him a return of my 
colloquial ease. 

Yet it appears strange in this season of pa- 
negyric, when scarce an author passes unpraised 
either by his friends or himself, that such merit 
as our philosopher's should be forgotten. While 
the epithets of ingenious, copious, elaborate, and 
refined, are lavished among the mob, like medals 
at a coronation, the lucky prizes fall on every 
side, but not one on him. I could, on this occa- 
sion, make myself melancholy, by considering the 
capriciousness of public taste, or the mutability of 
fortune ; but during this fit of morality, lest my 
reader should sleep, I'll take a nap myself, and 
when I awake tell him my dream. 

I imagined the Thames was frozen over, and I 
stood by its side. Several booths were erected 
upon the ice, and I was told by one of the spec- 
tators, that Fashion Fair was going to begin. 
He added, that every author who would carry his 
works there, might probably find a very good re- 
ception. I was resolved, however, to observe the 
humours of the place, in safety from the shore, 
sensible that ice was at best precarious, having 
been always a little cowardly in my sleep 

Several of my acquaintance seemed much more 
nardy than I, and went over the ice with intre- 
pidity Some carried their works to the fair on 
A 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



siedges, some on carts, and those which were 
more voluminous were conveyed in waggons 
Their temerity astonished me. I knew their 
cargoes were heavy, and expected every moment 
they would have gone to the bottom. They alJ 
entered the fair, however, in safety, and each 
soon after returned, to my great surprise, highh 
satisfied with his entertainment, and the bargains 
he had brought away. 

The success of such numbers at last began to 
operate upon me. If these, cried I, meet with 
favour and safety, some luck may, perhaps, foi 
once attend the unfortunate! I am resolved tc 
make a new adventure. The furniture, frippery 
and fire-works of China have long been fashion 
ably bought up. I'll try the fair with a small 
cargo of Chinese morality. If the Chinese have 
contributed to vitiate our taste, I'll try how far 
they can help to improve our understanding. 
But as others have driven into the market in 
waggons, I'll cautiously begin by venturing with 
a wheelbarrow. Thus resolved, I baled up my 
goods and fairly ventured ; when, upon just en- 
tering the fair, I fancied the ice that had sup 
ported a hundred waggons before, cracked undei 
me, and wheelbarrow and all went to the bottom 



Upon awaking from my reverie with the fright, 
I could not help wishing that the pains taken in 
giving this correspondence an English dress had 
been employed in contriving new political systems, 
or new plots for farces. I might then have taken 
my station in the world, either as a poet or a phi- 
losopher, and made one in those little societies 
where men club to raise each other's reputation. 
But, at present, I belong to no particular class ; I 
resemble one of those solitary animals that has 
been forced from its forest to gratify human 
curiosity. My earliest wish was to escape un- 
heeded through life ; but I have been set up for 
halfpence, to fret and scamper at the end of my 
chain. Though none are injured by my rage, 1 
am naturally too savage to court any friends by 
fawning; too obstinate to be taught new tricks; 
and too improvident to mind what may happen • 
I am appeased, though not contented. Too in- 
dolent for intrigue, and too timid to push for 
favour, I am — But what signifies what I am ? 

£Au-« »«< o-y rvxv p-iyet x ol '? i ' ri ' to* A///.6V' tu^ov, 

OuOlV IfMt X' Up**' ^CCiZ,iTt TOUS fAtr' 6yW£. 

bortu&e and Hope, adieu ! — I see my port, 
Too long your dupe : b» others now your sport. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WOKLD. 




» mu^h 
by Mich i 



liberties a« our religion that would I 
nange ; ay, our religion, my lads." 



LETTER I. 



To Mr. ***•, Merchant in London. 

Amsterdam. 

Sir, — Yours of the 13th instant, covering two 
bills, one on Messrs. R. and D. value 478Z. 105. and 
the other on Mr. ****, value 285Z. duly came to 
hand ; the former of which met with honour, but 
the other has been trifled with, and I am afraid 
will be returned protested. 

The bearer of this is my friend, therefore let him 
be yours. He is a native of Honan in China, and 
one who did me signal services when he was a 
mandarine, and I a factor at Canton. By fre- 
quently conversing with the English there, he 
has learned the language, though entirely a 
"tranger to their manners and customs. I am 



told he is a philosopher; I am sure he is a 
man ; that, to you, will be his best recommenda- 
tion, next to the consideration of his being the 
friend of, Sir,— Yours, &c. 



LETTER II. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to ****, Merchant in Amsterdam 

London. 

Friend of my heart,— 'May the wings of 
peace rest upon thy dwelling, and the shield of 
conscience preserve thee from vice and misery:' 
for all thy favours accept my gratitude and 
esteem, the only tributes a poor philosophic 
wanderer can return. Sure fortune is resolved to 
make me unhappy, when she gives others a 
power of testifying their friendship by actions, 
and leaves me only words to express the sincerity 
of mine. 

I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy by which 
you endeavour to lessen your own merit and my 
obligations. By calling your late instances of 
friendship only a return for former favours, you 
would induce me to impute to your justice what 
I owe to your generosity. 

The services I did you at Canton, justice, hu- 
manity, and my office bade me perform; those 
you have done me since my arrival at Amster- 
dam, no laws obliged you to, no justice required ; 
even half your favours would have been greater 
than my most sanguine expectations. 

The sum of money, therefore, which you 
privately conveyed into my baggage when I was 
leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till 
my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



You have been bred a merchant, and I a scnolar , 
you, consequently, love money better than I. 
You can find pleasure in superfluity, I am per- 
fectly contented with what is sufficient. Take 
therefore what is yours; it may give you some 
pleasure, even though you have no occasion to 
use it; my happiness it cannot improve, for I 
have already all that I want. 

My passage by sea from Rotterdam to England 
was more painful to me than all the journeys I 
ever made on land. I have traversed the im- 
measurable wilds of Mogul Tartary; felt all the 
rigours of Siberian skies ; I have had my repose 
an hundred times disturbed by invading savages, 
and have seen, without shrinking, the desert 
sands rise like a troubled ocean all around me. 
Against these calamities I was armed with reso- 
lution; but in my passage to England, though 
nothing occurred that gave the mariners any 
uneasiness, yet, to one who was never at sea 
before, all was a subject of astonishment and 
terror. To find the land disappear, to see our 
ship mount the waves swift as an arrow from the 
Tartar bow, to hear the wind howling through the 
cordage, to feel a sickness which depresses even 
the spirits of the brave ; these were unexpected 
distresses, and consequently assaulted me unpre- 
pared to receive them. 

You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage 
by sea. With us of China, a man who has been 
from sight of land is regarded upon his rerun 
with admiration. I have known some provinces 
where there is not even a name for the ocean. 
What a strange people therefore am I got amongst, 
who have founded an empire on this unstable 
element, who build cities upon billows that rise 
higher than the mountains of Tipartala, and 
make the deep more formidable than the wildest 
tempest. 

Such accounts as these, I must confess, were 
my motives for seeing England. These induced 
me to undertake a journey of seven hundred 
painful days, in order to examine its opulence, 
buildings, science, arts, and manufactures, on the 
spot. Judge then my disappointment on entering 
London, to see no signs of that opulence so much 
talked of abroad ; wherever I turn, I am presented 
with a gloomy solemnity in the houses, the 
streets, and the inhabitants ; none of that beautiful 
gilding which makes a principal ornament in 
Chinese architecture. The streets of Nankin are 
sometimes strewed with gold leaf; very dfferent 
are those of London: in the midst of their pave- 
ments, a great lazy puddle moves muddily along; 
heavy-laden machines, with wheels of unwieldy 
thickness, crowd up every passage; so that a 
stranger, instead of finding time for observation, 
is often happy if he has time to escape from being 
crushed to pieces. 

The houses borrow very few ornaments from 
architecture; their chief decoration seems to be a 
paltry piece of painting, hung out at their doors 
or windows, at once a proof of their indigence and 
vanity — their vanity, in each having one of those 
pictures exposed to public view : and their indi- 
gence, in being unable to get them better painted. 
In this respect, the fancy of their painters is also 
deplorable. Could you believe it? I have seen 
five black lions and three blue boars, in less than 
a circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that 
animals of these colours are no where to be found, 
except in the wild imaginations of Europe. 



From these circumstances in their buildings, 
and from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I 
am induced to conclude that the nation is actually 
poor ; and that, like the Persians, they make a 
splendid figure every where but at home. 
The proverb of Xixofou is, that a man's riches 
may be seen in his eyes ; if we judge of the 
English by this rule, there is not a poorer nation 
under the sun. 

I have been here but two days, so will not be 
hasty in my decisions; such letters as I shall 
write to Fipsihi in Moscow, I beg you will endea- 
vour toforward with all diligence; I shall send 
them open, in order that you may take copies or 
translations, as you are equally versed in the 
Dutch and Chinese languages. Dear friend, 
think of my absence with regret, as I sincerely 
regret yours ; even while I write, I lament our 
separation. Farewell. 



LETTER III. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to the care of Fipsihi, resident in 
Moscow; to be forwarded by the Russian caravan to Fura 
Hoam, first President to the Ceremonial Academy at 
Pekin, in China. 

Think not, O thou guide of my youth! that 
absence can impair my respect, or interposing 
trackless deserts blot your reverend figure from 
my memory. The farther I travel, I feel the pain 
of separation with stronger force ; those ties that 
bind me to my native country and you, are still 
unbroken. By every remove, I only drag a 
greater length of chain. 

Could I find aught worth transmitting from so 
remote a region as this to which I have wandered, 
I should gladly send it ; but instead of this, you 
must be contented with a renewal of my former 
professions, and an imperfect account of a people 
with whom I am as yet but superficially ac- 
quainted. The remarks of a man who has been 
but three days in the country, can only be those 
obvious circumstances which force themselves 
upon the imagination : I consider myself here as 
a newly created being introduced into a new 
world; every object strikes with wonder and sur- 
prise. The imagination, still unsated, seems the 
only active principle of the mind. The most 
trifling occurrences give pleasure, till the gloss of 
novelty is worn away When I have ceased to 
wonder, I may possibly grow wise ; I may then 
call the reasoning principles to my aid, and com- 
pare those objects with each other, which were 
before examined without reflection. 

Behold me then in London, gazing at the 
strangers, and they at me. It seems they find 
somewhat absurd in my figure ; and had I been 
never from home, it is possible I might find an 
infinite fund of ridicvue in theirs; but by long 
travelling I am taught to laugh at folly alone, 
and to find nothing truly ridiculous but villsny 
and vice. 

When I h3d just quitted my native country, 
and crossed the Chinese wall, I fancied every 
deviation from the customs and manners of 
China was a departing from nature. I smiled at 
the blue lips and red foreheads of the Tonguese ; 
and could hardly contain when I saw the Daures 
dress their heads with horns; the Ostiacs pow- 
dered with red earth; and the Calmuc beauties, 
bricked out in all the finery of sheepskin, appeared 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



highly ridiculous. But I soon perceived that the 
ridicule lay not in them but in me; that I falsely 
condemned others of absurdity, because they 
happened to differ from a standard originally 
founded in prejudice or partiality. 

I find no pleasure, therefore, in taxing the 
English with departing from nature in their 
external appearance, which is all I yet know of 
their character ; it is possible they only endeavour 
to improve her simple plan, since every extrava- 
gance in dress proceeds from a desire of becoming 
more beautiful than nature made us ; and this is 
so harmless a vanity, that I not only pardon but 
approve it. A desire to be more excellent than 
others is what actually makes us so; and as 
thousands find a livelihood in society by such 
appetites, none but the ignorant inveigh against 
them. 

You are not insensible, most reverend Fum 
Hoam, what numberless trades, even among the 
Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each 
other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, tooth- 
stainers, eye-brow-p] uckers, would all want bread, 
should their neighbours want vanity. These 
vanities, however, employ much fewer hands in 
China than in England; and a fine gentleman, or 
a fine lady here, dressed up to the fashion, seems 
scarcely to have a single limb that does not suffer 
some distortions from art. 

To make a fine gentleman, several trades are 
required, but chiefly a barber. You have un- 
doubtedly heard of the Jewish champion, whose 
strength lay in his hair ; one would think that the 
English were for placing all wisdom there. To 
appear wise, nothing more is requisite here, than 
for a man to borrow hair from the heads of all his 
neighbours, and clap it like a bush on his own. 
The distributors of law and physic stick on such 
quantities, that it is almost impossible, even in 
idea, to distinguish between the head and hair. 

Those whom I have been now describing affect 
the gravity of the lion; those I am going to 
describe, more resemble the pert vivacity of 
smaller animals. The barber, who is still master 
of the ceremonies, cuts their hair close to the 
crown; and then, with a composition of meal and 
hog's lard, plasters the whole in such a manner 
as to make it impossible to distinguish whether 
the patient wears a cap or a plaster. But, to 
make the picture more perfectly striking, conceive 
the tail of some beast, a greyhound's tail, or a 
pig's tail, for instance, appended to the back of 
the head, and reaching down to that place where 
tails in other animals are generally seen to begin. 
Thus betailed and bepowdered, the man of taste 
fancies he improves in beauty, dresses up his 
hard featured face in smiles, and attempts to look 
hideously tender. Thus equipped, he is qualified 
to make love, and hopes for success more from 
the powder on the outside of his head, than the 
sentiments within. 

Yet, when I consider what sort of a creature 
the fine lady is, to whom he is supposed to pay 
his addresses, it is not strange to find him thus 
equipped in order to please. She is herself every 
whit as fond of powder, and tails, and hog's lard, 
as he. To speak my secret sentiments, most 
reverend Fum, the ladies here are horridly ugly ; 
I can hardly endure the sight of them ; they no 
way resemble the beauties of China: the Euro- 
peans have a quite different idea of beauty from 
us; when I reflect on the small-footed perfections 



of an eastern beauty, how is it possible I should 
have eyes for a woman whose feet are near ten 
inches long. I shall never forget the beauties of 
my native city of Nan-few. How very broad 
their faces; how very short their noses;, how 
very little their eyes ; how very thin their lips ; 
how very black their teeth ; the snow on the tops 
of Bao is not fairer than their cheeks ; and their 
eyebrows are small as the line by the pencil of 
Quamsi. Here a lady with such perfections 
would be frightful ; Dutch and Chinese beauties, 
indeed, have some resemblance, but English wo- 
men are entirely different; red cheeks, big eyes, 
and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only 
seen here, but wished for ; and then they have 
such masculine feet, as actually serve some for 
walking ! 

Yet, uncivil as nature has been, they seem re- 
solved to outdo her in unkindness ; they use 
white powder, blue powder, and black powder, for 
their hair, and a red powder for the face, on some 
particular occasions. 

They like to have the face of various colours, 
as among the Tartars of Coreki, frequently stick- 
ing on, with spittle, little black patches on every 
part of it, except on the tip of the nose, which I 
have never seen with a patch. You will have a 
better idea of their manner of placing these spots, 
when I have finished a map of an English face 
patched up to the fashion, which shall shortly be 
sent to increase your curious collection of paint- 
ings, medals, and. monsters. 

But what surprises me more than all the rest 
is, what I have just now been credibly informed 
of by one of this country; ' Most ladies here,' 
says he, ' have two faces ; one face to sleep in, and 
another to show in company. The first is gene- 
rally reserved for the husband and family at 
home, the other put on to please strangers abroad. 
The family face is often indifferent enough, but 
the out-door one looks something better ; this is 
always made at the toilet, where the looking-glass 
and toad-eater sit in council, and settle the com- 
plexion of the day.' 

I cannot ascertain the truth of this remark ; 
however, it is actually certain, that they wear 
more clothes within doors than without ; and I 
have seen a lady who seemed to shudder at a 
breeze in her own apartment, appear half naked 
in the streets. Farewell. 



LETTER IV. 

To the same. 

The English seem as silent as the Japanese, 
yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Upon 
my arrival, I attributed that reserve to modesty, 
which I now find has its origin in pride. Conde- 
scend to address them first, and you are sure of 
their acquaintance; stoop to flattery, and you 
conciliate their friendship and esteem. They bear 
hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the miseries of life, 
without skrinking ; danger only calls forth their 
fortitude; they even exult in calamity; but con- 
tempt is what they cannot bear. An Englishman 
fears contempt more than death; he often flies to 
death as a refuge from its pressure, and dies when 
he fancies the world has ceased to esteem him. 
• Pride seems the source not only of their na- 
tional vices, but of their national virtues also. An 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



Englishman is taught to love his king as his 
friend, but to acknowledge no other master than 
the laws which himself has contributed to enact. 
He despises these nations, who, that one may be 
free, are all content to be slaves ; who first lift a 
tyrant into terror, and then shrink under his 
power as if delegated from heaven. Liberty is 
echoed in all their assemblies, and thousands 
might be found ready to offer up their lives for 
the sound, though perhaps not one of all the num- 
ber understands its meaning. The lowest me- 
chanic, however, looks upon it as his duty to be 
a watchful guardian of his country's freedom, and 
often uses a language that might seem haughty, 
even in the mouth of the great emperor whe 
traces his ancestry to the moon. 

A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons, 
I could not avoid stopping, in order to listen to a 
dialogue which I thought might afford me some 
entertainment. The conversation was carried on 
between a debtor through the grate of his prison, 
a porter who had stopped to rest his burden, and 
a soldier at the window. The subject was upon a 
threatened invasion from France, and each 
seemed extremely anxious to rescue his country 
from the impending danger. ' For my part,' 
cries the prisoner, ' the greatest of my apprehen- 
sions is for our freedom ; if the French should 
conquer, what would become of English liberty 1 
My dear friends, liberty is the Englishman's pre- 
rogative ; we must preserve that at the expense 
of our lives, of that the French shall never deprive 
us ; it is not to be expected that men who are 
slaves themselves, would preserve our freedom 
should they happen to conquer.' — ' Ay, slaves,' 
cries the porter, ' they are all slaves, fit enly to 
carry burdens every one of them. Before I would 
stoop to slavery, may this be my poison,' and he 
held the goblet in his hand, ' may this be my 
poison, — but I would sooner list for a soldier.' 

The soldier, taking the goblet from his friend, 
with much awe, fervently cried out, ' It is not so 
much our liberties as our religion that would suf- 
fer by such a change : aye, our religion, my lads. 
' 'May the devil sink me into flames," ' such was the 
solemnity of his adjuration, ' if the French should 
come over, but our religion would be utterly un- 
done.' So saying, instead of a libation, he ap- 
plied the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sen- 
timents with a ceremony of the most persevering 
devotion. 

In short, every man here pretends to be a poli- 
tician ; even the fair sex are sometimes found to 
mix the severity of national altercation with the 
blandishments of love, and often become con- 
querors by more weapons of destruction than 
their eyes. 

This universal passion for politics, is gratified 
by daily gazettes, as with us at China. But as in 
ours, the emperor endeavours to instruct his peo- 
ple, in theirs the people endeavour to instruct the 
administration. You must not, however, ima- 
gine, that they who compile these papers have 
any actual knowledge of the politics, or the go- 
vernment of a state; they only collect their mate- 
rials from the oracle of some coffee-house, which 
oracle has himself gathered them the night before 
from a beau at a gaming table, who has pillaged 
his knowledge from a great man's porter, who 
has had his information from the great man's gen- 
tleman, who has invented the whole story for his 
own amusement the night preceding. 



The English in general seem fonder of gaining 
the esteem than the love of those they converse 
with. This gives a formality to their amuse- 
ments ; their gayest conversations have some- 
thing too wise for innocent relaxation ; though in 
company you are seldom disgusted with the ab- 
surdity of a fool, you are seldom lifted into rap- 
ture by those strokes of vivacity which give 
instant, though not permanent pleasure. 

What they want, however, in gaiety they make 
up in politeness. You smile at hearing me praise 
the English for their politeness ; you who have 
heard very different accounts from the mission- 
aries at Pekin, who have seen such a different 
behaviour in their merchants and seamen at 
home. But I must still repeat it, the English 
seem more polite than any of their neighbours : 
their great art in this respect lies in endeavour- 
ing, while they oblige, to lessen the force of the 
favour. Other countries are fond of obliging a 
stranger, but seem desirous that he should be 
sensible of the obligation. The English confer 
their kindness with an appearance of indiffer- 
ence, and give away benefits with an air as if they 
despised them. 

Walking a few days ago between an English- 
man and a Frenchman into the suburbs of the 
city, we were overtaken by a heavy shower of 
rain. I was unprepared ; but they had each large 
coats which defended them from what seemed to 
me a perfect inundation. The Englishman seeing 
me shrink from the weather, accosted me thus : 
' Psha, man, what dost shrink at? here, take 
this coat ; I do not want it : I find it no way use- 
ful to me ; I had as lief be without it.' The 
Frenchman began to show his politeness in turn. 
' My dear friend,' cries he, ' why won't you 
oblige me by making use of my coat ? you see 
how well it defends me from the rain. I should 
not choose to part with it to others, but to such a 
friend as you, I could even part with my skin to 
do him service.' 

From such minute instances as these, most re- 
verend Fum Hoam, I am sensible your sagacity 
will collect instruction. The volume of nature is 
the book of knowledge; and he becomes most 
wise, who makes the most judicious selection. 
Farewell. 



LETTER V. 

To the same. 

I have already informed you of the singular 
passion of this nation for politics. An English- 
man, not satisfied with finding by his own pros- 
perity the contending powers of Europe properly 
balanced, desires also to know the precise value 
of every weight in either scale. To gratify this 
curiosity, a leaf of political instruction is served 
up every morning with tea; when our politician 
has feasted upon this, he repairs to a coffee-house, 
in order to ruminate upon what he has read, and 
increase his collection ; from thence he proceeds 
to the ordinary, inquires what news, and trea- 
suring up every acquisition there, hunts about all 
the evening in quest of more, and carefully adds 
it to the rest. Thus at night he retires home, 
full of the important advices of the day._ When 
lo ! awaking next morning, he finds the instruc- 
tions of yesterday a collection of absurdity or pal- 
pable falsehood. This, one would think, a mor- 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



tifying repulse in the pursuit of wisdom ; yet the 
politician, no way discouraged, hunts on, in order 
to collect fresh materials, and in order to he again 
disappointed. 

I have often admired the commercial spirit 
which prevails over Europe ; have heen surprised 
to see them carry on a traffic with productions, 
that an Asiatic stranger would deem entire]y use- 
less. It is a proverb in China, that a European 
suffers not even his spittle to he lost ; the maxim, 
however, is not sufficiently strong, since they sell 
even their lies to a great advantage. Every na- 
tion drives a considerable trade in this commo- 
dity with their neighbours. 

An English dealer in this way, for instance, has 
only to ascend to his work-house, and manufac- 
ture a turbulent speech averred to be spoken in 
the senate, or a report supposed to be dropt at 
court ; a piece of scandal that strikes at a popular 
mandarine, or a secret treaty between two neigh- 
bouring powers. "When finished, these goods are 
baled up, and consigned to a factor abroad, who 
sends in return two battles, three sieges, and a 
shrewd letter filled with dashes, blanks, and stars, 
of great importance. 

Thus you perceive, that a single gazette is the 
joint manufacture of Europe : and he who would 
peruse it with a philosophical eye, might perceive 
in every paragraph something characteristic of 
the nation to whom it belongs. A map does not 
exhibit a more distinct view of the boundaries 
and situation of every country, than its news does 
a picture of the genius and the morals of its inha- 
bitants. The superstition and erroneous delicacy 
of Italy, the formality of Spain, the cruelty of 
Portugal, the fears of Austria, the confidence of 
Prussia, the levity of France, the avarice of Hol- 
land, the pride of England, the absurdity of Ire- 
land, and the national partiality of Scotland, are 
all conspicuous in every page. 

But, perhaps, you may find more satisfaction 
in a real newspaper, than in my description of 
one; I therefore send a specimen, which may 
serve to exhibit the manner of their being writ- 
ten, and distinguish the characters of the various 
nations which are united in its composition. 

Naples. — We have lately dug up here a curious 
Etruscan monument, broke in two in the raising. 
The characters are scarce visible; but Nugosi, 
the learned antiquary, supposes it to have been 
erected in honour of Picus, a Latin king, as one 
of the lines may be plainly distinguished to begin 
with a P. It is hoped this discovery will pro- 
duce something valuable, as the literati of our 
twelve academies are deeply engaged in the dis- 
quisition. 

Pisa.— Since Father Fudgi, prior of St. Gil- 
bert's, has gone to reside at Rome, no miracles 
have been performed at the shrine of St. Gilbert ; 
the devout begin to grow uneasy, and some begin 
actually to fear that St. Gilbert has forsaken 
them with the reverend father. 

Lucca. — The administrators of our' serene re- 
public, have frequent conferences upon the part 
they shall take in the present commotions of 
Europe. Some are for sending a body of their 
troops, consisting of one company of foot, and six 
horsemen, to make a diversion in favour of the 
empress queen; others are as strenuous asserters 
of the Prussian interest: what turn these debates 
may take, time only can discover. However, 
certain it is, we shall be able to bring into the 



field at the opening of the next campaign, seventy- 
five armed men, a commander-in-chief, and two 
drummers of great experience. 

Spain. — Yesterday the new king showed him- 
self to his subjects; and after having staid half 
an hour in his balcony, retired to the royal apart- 
ment. The night concluded on this extraordinary 
occasion, with illuminations and other demon- 
strations of joy. 

The queen is more beautiful than the rising 
sun, and reckoned one of the first wits in Europe. 
She had a glorious opportunity of displaying the 
readiness of her invention, and her skill in re- 
partee, lately at court. The Duke of Lerma, 
coming up to her with a low bow and a smile, 
and presenting a nosegay set with diamonds, — 
1 Madam,' cries he, ' I am your most obedient 
humble servant.' — 'Oh, sir,' replies the queen, 
without any prompter, or the least hesitation, 
' I'm very proud of the very great honour you do 
me.' Upon which she made a low curtsey, and 
all the courtiers fell a laughing at the readiness 
and the smartness of her reply. 

Lisbon. — Yesterday we had an auto da /<?, at 
which were burned three young women accused 
of heresy, one of them of exquisite beauty; two 
Jews, and an old woman, convicted of being a 
witch. One of the friars who attended this last, 
reports that he saw the devil fly out of her at the 
stake in the shape of a flame of fire. The populace 
behaved on this occasion with great good humour, 
joy, and sincere devotion. 

Our merciful sovereign has been for some time 
past recovered of his fright ; though so atrocious 
an attempt deserved to exterminate half the 
nation, yet he has been graciously pleased to spare 
the lives of his subjects, and not above five hun- 
dred have been broke upon the wheel, or other- 
wise executed, upon this horrid occasion. 

Vienna. — We have received certain advices, 
that a party of twenty thousand Austrians having 
attacked a much superior body of Prussians, put 
them to flight, and took the rest prisoners of war. 

Berlin. — We have received certain advices, 
that a party of twenty thousand Prussians, having 
attacked a much superior body of Austrians, put 
them to flight, and took a great number of pri- 
soners, with their military chest, cannon, and 
baggage. 

Though we have not succeeded this campaign 
to our wishes; yet, when we think of him who 
commands us, we rest in security; while we sleep, 
our king is watchful for our safety. 

Paris. — We shall soon strike a signal blow. 
We have seventeen flat -bottomed boats at Havre. 
The people are in excellent spirits, and our 
ministers make no difficulty in raising the sup- 
plies. 

We are all undone; the people are discontented 
to the last degree; the ministers are obliged to 
have recourse to the most rigorous methods to 
raise the expenses of the war. 

Our distresses are great; but Madam Pom- 
padour continues to supply our king, who is now 
growing old, with a fresh lady every night. His 
health, thank heaven, is still pretty well; nor is 
he in the least unfit, as was reported, for any kind 
of royal exercitation. He was so affrighted at the 
affair of Damien, that his physicians were appre- 
hensive lest his reason should suffer, but that 
wretch's tortures soon composed the kingly terrors 
of his breast. 



THE CITIZEN 



0$ 



THE WORLD. 



England. — Wanted, an usher to an academy. 
N. B. He must be able to read, dress hair, and 
must have had the small-pox. 

Dublin. — We hear that there is a benevolent 
subscription on foot among the nobility and gentry 
of this kingdom, who are great patrons of merit, 
in order to assist Black and All Black in his con- 
test with the Padderan mare. 

We hear from Germany, that Prince Fer- 
dinand has gained a complete victory, and taken 
twelve kettle-drums, five standards, and four 
waggons of ammunition, prisoners of war. 

Edinburgh. — We are positive when we say, 
that Saunders M'Gregor, who was lately executed 
for horse-stealing, is not a Scotchman, but born 
in Carrickfergus. Farewell. 



LETTER VI 

Fum Hoam, first President of the Ceremonial Academy at 
Pekin, to Lien Chi Altangi, the discontented wanderer; 
by the way of Moscow. 

Whether sporting on the flowery banks of the 
river Irtis, or scaling the steepy mountains of 
Douchenour; whether traversing the black deserts 
of Kobi, or giving lessons of politeness to the 
savage inhabitants of Europe : in whatever 
country, whatever climate, and whatever cir- 
cumstances, all hail! May Tien, the universal 
soul, take you under his protection, and inspire 
you with a superior portion of himself. 

How long, my friend, shall an enthusiasm for 
knowledge continue to obstruct your happiness, 
and tear you from all the connexions that make 
life pleasing? How long will you continue to 
rove from climate to climate, circled by thousands, 
and yet without a friend, feeling all the incon- 
veniences of a crowd, and all the anxiety of being 
alone 1 

I know you will reply, that the refined pleasure 
of growing every day wiser, is a sufficient recom- 
pense for every inconvenience. I know you will 
talk of the vulgar satisfaction of soliciting hap- 
piness from sensual enjoyment only ; and pro- 
bably enlarge upon the exquisite raptures of sen- 
timental bliss. Yet, believe me, friend, you are 
deceived; all our pleasures, though seemingly 
never so remote from sense, derive their origin 
from some one of the senses. The most exquisite 
demonstration in mathematics, or the most pleas- 
ing disquisition in metaphysics, if it does not 
ultimately tend to increase some sensual satis- 
faction, is delightful only to fools, or to men who 
have by long habit contracted a false idea of 
pleasure; and he who separates sensual and sen- 
timental enjoyments, seeking happiness from 
mind alone, is in fact as wretched as the naked 
inhabitant of the forest, who places all happiness 
in the first, regardless of the latter. There are 
two extremes in this respect; the savage who 
swallows down the draught of pleasure without 
staying to reflect on his happiness, and the sage 
who passes the cup while he reflects on the con- 
veniences of drinking. 

It is with a heart full of sorrow, my dear 
Altangi, that I must inform you, that what the 
world calls happiness, must now be yours no 
longer. Our great emperor's displeasure at your 
leaving China, contrary to the rules of our go- 
vernment, and the immemorial custom of the 
empire, has produced the most terrible effects. 



Your wife, daughter, and the rest of your family, 
have been seized by his order, and appropriated 
to his use ; all, except your son, are now the pe- 
culiar property of him who possesses all ; him I 
have hidden from the officers employed for this 
purpose, and even at the hazard of my life, I have 
concealed him. The youth seems obstinately 
bent on finding you out, wherever you are ; he is 
determined to face every danger that opposes his 
pursuit. Though yet but fifteen, all his father's 
virtues and obstinacy sparkle in his eyes, and 
mark him as one destined to no mediocrity of 
fortune. 

You see, my dearest friend, what imprudence 
has brought thee to; from opulence, a tender 
family, surrounding friends, and your master's 
esteem, it has reduced thee to want, persecution, 
and still worse, to our mighty monarch's dis- 
pleasure. Want of prudence is too frequently the 
want of virtue ; nor is there upon earth a more 
powerful advocate for vice than poverty. As I 
shall endeavour to guard thee from the one, so 
guard thyself from the other; and still think of 
me with affection and esteem. Farewell. 



LETTER VII 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

[The Editor thinks proper to acquaint the reader, that the 
greatest part of the following letter seems to him to be 
little more than a rhapsody of sentences borrowed from 
Confucius, the Chinese philosopher.] 

A wife, a daughter, carried into captivity to 
expiate my offence; a son scarce yet arrived at 
maturity, resolving to encounter every danger in 
the pious pursuit of one who has undone him; 
these indeed are circumstances of distress ; though 
my tears were more precious than the gem of 
Golconda, yet would they fall upon such an 
occasion. 

But I submit to the stroke of heaven, I hold 
the volume of Confucius in my hand, and as I 
read, grow humble, and patient, and wise. We 
should feel sorrow, says he, but not sink under 
its oppression; the heart of a wise man should 
resemble a mirror, which reflects every object 
without being sullied by any. The wheel of 
fortune turns incessantly round, and who can say 
within himself, I shall to-day be uppermost. We 
should hold the immutable mean that lies be- 
tween insensibility and anguish; our attempts 
should be, not to extinguish nature, but to re- 
press it; not to stand unmoved at distress, but 
endeavour to turn every disaster to our own ad- 
vantage. Our greatest glory is, not in never 
falling, but in rising every time we fall. 

I fancy myself at present, O thou reverend dis- 
ciple of Tao, more than a match for all that can 
happen ; the chief business of my life has been to 
procure wisdom, and the chief object of that wis- 
dom was to be^ happy. My attendance on your 
lectures, my conferences with the missionaries of 
Europe, and all my subsequent adventures upon 
quitting China, were calculated to increase the 
sphere of my happiness, not my curiosity. Let 
European travellers cross seas and deserts, merely j 
to measure the height of a mountain, to describe j 
the cataract of a river, or tell the commodities 
which every country may produce ; merchants or 
geographers, perhaps, may find profit by such dis- 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



coveries, but what advantage can accrue to a phi- 
losopher from such accounts, who is desirous of 
■understanding the human heart, who seeks to 
know the men of every country, who desires to 
discover those differences which result from cli- 
mate, religion, education, prejudice, and partiality. 

I 6hould think my time very ill bestowed, were 
the only fruits of my adventures to consist in being 
able to tell, that a tradesman of London lives in a 
Tiouse three times as high as that of our great 
emperor ; that the ladies wear longer clothes than 
ihe men; that the priests are dressed in colours 
which we are taught to detest ; and that the sol- 
diers wear scarlet, which is with us the symbol of 
.peace and innocence. How many travellers are 
there, who confine their relations to such minute 
and useless particulars ; for one who enters into 
the genius of those nations with whom he has 
conversed, who discloses their morals, their opi- 
nions, the ideas which they entertain of religious 
worship, the intrigues of their ministers, and 
their skill in sciences; there are twenty, who only 
mention some idle particulars, which can be of no 
real use to a true philosopher. All their remarks 
tend, neither to make themselves nor others more 
happy; they no way contribute to control their 
passions, to bear adversity, to inspire true virtue, 
or raise a detestation of vice. 

Men may be very learned, and yet very miser- 
able; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a 
sublime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good 
man ; I esteem, therefore, the traveller who in- 
structs the heart, but despise him who only in- 
dulges the imagination ; a man who leaves home 
to mend himself and others, is a philosopher; but 
he, who goes from country to country, guided by 
the blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond. 
From Zerdusht down to him of Tyanea, I honour 
all those great names who endeavoured to unite 
the world by their travels ; such men grew wiser 
as well as better, the farther they departed from 
home, and seemed like rivers, Avhose streams are 
not only increased but refined as they travel from 
their source. 

For my own part, my greatest glory is, that 
travelling has not more steeled my constitution 
against all the vicissitudes of climate, and all the 
depressions of fatigue, than it has my mind against 
the accidents of fortune, or the accesses of despair. 
Farewell. 



LETTER VIII. 

Erom Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

How insupportable, oh thou possessor of heavenly 
wisdom! would be this separation, this immea- 
surable distance from my friend, were I not able 
thus to delineate my heart upon paper, and to 
send thee daily a map of my mind. 

I am every day better reconciled to the people 
among whom I reside, and begin to fancy tiiat in 
time I shall find them more opulent, more chari- 
table, and more hospitable than I at first imagined. 
I begin to learn somewhat of their manners and 
customs, and to see reasons for several deviations 
which they make from us, from whom all other 
nations derive their politeness as well as their 
original. 

In spite of taste, in spite of prejudice, I now 
begin to think their women tolerable ; I can now 



look on a languishing blue eye without disgust, 
and pardon a set of teeth, even though whiter 
than ivory. I now begin to fancy there is no uni- 
versal standard for beauty. The truth is, the 
manners of the ladies in this city are so very open, 
and so vastly engaging, that I am inclined to pass 
over the more glaring defects of their persons, 
since compensated by the more solid, yet latent 
beauties of the mind; what though they want 
black teeth, or are deprived of the allurements of 
feet no bigger than their thumbs, yet still they 
have souls, my friend, such souls, so free, so 
pressing, so hospitable, and so engaging — I have 
received more invitations in the streets of Lon- 
don from the sex in one night, than I have met 
with at Pekin in twelve revolutions of the moon. 

Every evening as I return home from my usual 
solitary excursions, I am met by several of those 
well-disposed daughters of hospitality, at different 
times and in different streets, richly dressed, and 
with minds not less noble than their appearance. 
You know that nature has indulged me with a 
person by no means agreeable; yet are they too 
generous to object to my homely appearance; they 
feel no repugnance at my broad face and flat 
nose; they perceive me to be a stranger, and that 
alone is a sufficient recommendation. They even 
seem to think it their duty to do the honours of 
the country, by every act of complaisance in their 
power. One takes me under the arm, and in a 
manner forces me along; another catches me 
round the neck, and desires to partake in this 
office ofhospitality; while a third,kinder still, invites 
me to refresh my spirits with wine. Wine is in 
England reserved only for the rich, yet here, even 
wine is given away to the stranger. 

A few nights ago, one of those generous crea- 
tures, dressed all in white, and flaunting like a 
meteor by my side, forcibly attended me home to 
my own apartment. She seemed charmed with 
the elegance of the furniture, and the convenience 
of my situation. And well indeed she might, for 
I have hired an apartment for not not less than 
two shillings of their money every week. But 
her civility did not rest here; for, at parting, 
being desirous to know the hour, and perceiving 
my watch out of order, she kindly took it to be re- 
paired by a relation of her own, which you may 
imagine will save some expense, and she assures 
me that it will cost her nothing. I shall have it 
back in a few days, when mended, and I am pre- 
paring a proper speech expressive of my grati- 
tude on the occasion. ' Celestial excellence,' I 
intend to say, 'happy I am in having found out, 
after many painful adventures, a land of inno- 
cence, and a people of humanity ; I may rove into 
other climes, and converse with nations yet un- 
known, but where shall I meet a soul of such 
purity as that which resides in thy breast ! Sure 
thou hast been nurtured by the bill of the 
Shin, or sucked the breast of the provident Gin 
Hiung. The melody of thy voice could rob the 
Chong Fou of her whelps, or inveigle the Boh 
that lives in the midst of the waters. Thy servant 
shall ever retain a sense of thy favours ; and one 
day boast of thy virtue, sincerity, and truth, 
among the daughters of China.' Adieu. 



THE CITJZEN OE THE WORLD. 



LETTER IX. 

To the same. 
I have been deceived; she whom I fancied a 
daughter of paradise, has proved to be one of the 
infamous disciples of Han ! I have lost a trifle, I 
have gained the consolation of having discovered 
a deceiver. I once more, therefore, relax into 
my former indifference with regard to the English 
ladies, they once more begin to appear disagreeable 
in my eyes. Thus is my whole time passed in 
forming conclusions which the next minute's ex- 
perience may probably destroy ; the present mo- 
ment becomes a comment on the past, and I 
improve rather in humility than wisdom. 

Their laws and religion forbid the English to 
keep more than one woman, I therefore concluded 
that prostitutes were banished from society; I 
was deceived, every man here keeps as many 
wives as he can maintain ; the laws are cemented 
with blood, praised, and disregarded. The very 
Chinese, whose religion allows him two wives, 
takes not half the liberties of the English in this 
particular. Their laws may be compared to the 
books of the Sybils, they are held in great venera- 
tion, but seldom read, or seldomer understood ; 
even those who pretend to be their guardians dis- 
pute about the meaning of many of them, and 
confess their ignorance of others. The law, there- 
fore, which commands them to have but one 
wife, is strictly observed only by those for whom 
one is more than sufficient, or by such as have 
not money to buy two. As for the rest, they vio- 
late it publicly, and some glory in its violation. 
They seem to think, like the Persians, that they 
give evident marks of manhood by increasing their 
seraglio. A mandarine, therefore, here generally 
keeps four wives, a gentleman three, and a stage- 
player two. As for the magistrates, the country 
justices, and squires, they are employed, first in 
debauching young virgins, and then punishing 
the transgression. 

From such a picture you will be apt to conclude, 
that he who employs four ladies for his amuse- 
ment, has four times as much constitution to 
spare as he who is contented with one; that a 
mandarine is much cleverer than a gentleman, 
and a gentleman than a player; and yet it is 
quite the reverse; a mandarine is frequently 
supported on spina e shanks, appears emaciated 
by luxury, and is obliged to have recourse to 
variety, merely from the weakness, not the vigour 
of his constitution, the number of his wives being 
the most equivocal symptom of his virility. 

Beside the country squire, there is also another 
set of men, whose whole employment consists in 
corrupting beauty; these the silly part of the fair 
sex call amiable ; the more sensible part of them, 
however, give them the title of abominable. You 
will probably demand what are the talents of a 
man thus caressed by the majority of the fair sex ? 
what talents, or what beauty he is possessed of, 
superior to the rest of his fellows 1 To answer you 
directly, he has neither talents, nor beauty, but 
then he is possessed of impudence and assiduity. 
With assiduity and impudence, men of all ages, 
and all figures, may commence admirers. I have 
even been told of some who made professions of 
expiring for love, when all the world could per- 
ceive they were going to die of old age ; and what 



is more surprising still, such battered beaus are 
generally most infamously successful. 

A fellow of this kind employs three hours every 
morning in dressing his head, by which is under- 
stood only his hair. 

He is a professed admirer, not of any particular 
lady, but of the whole sex. 

He is to suppose every lady has caught cold 
every night, which gives him an opportunity of 
calling to see how she does the next morning. 

He is upon all occasions to show himself in 
very great pain for the ladies ; if a lady drops even 
a pin, he is to fly in order to present it. 

He never speaks to a lady without advancing 
his mouth to her ear, by which he frequently 
addresses more senses than one. 

Upon proper occasions he looks excessively 
tender. This is performed by laying his hand 
upon his heart, shutting his eyes, and showing his 
teeth. 

He is excessively fond of dancing a minuet 
with the ladies, by which is only meant walking 
round the floor eight or ten times with his hat on, 
affecting great gravity, and sometimes looking 
tenderly on his partner. 

He never affronts any man himself, and never 
resents an affront from another. 

He has an infinite variety of small talk upon all 
occasions, and laughs when he has nothing more 
to say. 

Such is the killing creature who prostrates him- 
self to the sex till he has undone them; all whose 
submissions are the effects of a design, and who 
to please the ladies almost becomes himself a lady. 



LETTER X. 

To the same. 
I have hitherto given you no account of my 
journey from China to Europe, of my travels 
through countries, where nature sports in primeval 
rudeness, where she pours forth her wonders in 
solitude; countries, from whence the rigorous 
climate, the sweeping inundation, the drifted 
desert, the howling forest, and mountains of im- 
measurable height, banish the husbandman, and 
spread extensive desolation ; countries where the 
brown Tartar wanders for a precarious subsistence, 
with a heart that never felt pity, himself more 
hideous than the wilderness he makes. 

You will easily conceive the fatigue of crossing 
vast tracts of land either desolate, or still more 
dangerous by its inhabitants. The retreat of 
men, who seem driven from society in order to 
make war upon all the human race; nominally 
professing a subjection to Moscovy or China, but 
without any resemblance to the countries on which 
they depend. 

After I had crossed the great wall, the first 
objects that presented were the remains of deso- 
lated cities, and all the magnificence of venerable 
ruin. There were to be seen temples of beautiful 
structure, statues wrought by the hand of a 
master, and around a country of luxuriant plenty ; 
but not one single inhabitant to reap the bounties 
of nature. These were prospects that might 
humble the pride of kings and repress human 
vanity. I asked my guide the cause of such deso- 
lation. These countries, says he, were once the 
dominions of a Tartar prince ; and these ruins the 



10 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



seat of arts, elegance, and ease. This prince 
vraged an unsuccessful war with one of the em- 
perors of China; he was conquered, his cities 
plundered, and all his subjects carried into cap- 
tivity. Such are the effects of the ambition of 
kings! Ten dervises, says the Indian proverb, 
shall sleep in peace upon a single carpet, while 
two kings shall quarrel though they have king- 
doms to divide them. Sure, my friend, the 
cruelty and the pride of man have made more 
deserts than nature ever made ! she is kind, but 
man is ungrateful ! 

Proceeding in my journey through this pensive 
scene of desolated beauty, in a few days I arrived 
among the Daures, a nation still dependent on 
China. Xaizigar is their principal city, which, 
compared with those of Europe, scarcely deserves 
the name. The governors and their officers, who 
are sent yearly from Pekin, abuse their authority, 
and often take the wives and daughters of the 
inhabitants to themselves. The Daures, accus- 
tomed to base submission, feel no resentment at 
those injuries, or stifle what they feel. Custom 
and necessity teach even barbarians the same art 
of dissimulation that ambition and intrigue inspire 
in the breast of the polite. Upon beholding such 
unlicensed stretches of power — ' Alas !' thought I, 
'how little does our wise and good emperor know 
of those intolerable exactions ! these provinces 
are too distant for complaint, and too insignificant 
to expect redress. The more distant the govern- 
ment, the honester should be the governor to 
whom it is entrusted; for hope of impunity is a 
strong inducement to violation.' 

The religion of the Daures is more absurd than 
even that of the sectaries of Fohi. How would 
you be surprised, O sage disciple and follower of 
Confucius ! you who believe one eternal intelligent 
Cause of all, should you be present at the bar- 
barous ceremonies of this infatuated people ! How 
would you deplore the blindness and folly of man- 
kind ! His boasted reason seems only to light him 
astray, and brutal instinct more regularly points 
out the path to happiness. Could you think it? 
they adore a wicked divinity ; they fear him, and 
they worship him ; they imagine him a malicious 
being, ready to injure and ready to be appeased. 
The men and women assemble at midnight in a 
hut, which serves for a temple. A priest stretches 
himself on the ground and all the people pour 
forth the most horrid cries, while drums and tim- 
brels swell the infernal concert. After this dis- 
sonance, miscalled music, has continued about 
two hours, the priest rises from the ground, as- 
sumes an air of inspiration, grows big with the in- 
spiring demon and pretends to skill in futurity. 

In every country, my friend, the bonzes, the 
brachmans, and the priests, deceive the people ; 
all reformations begin from the laity ; the priests 
point us out the way to heaven with their fingers, 
but stand still themselves, nor seem to travel to- 
wards the country in view. 

The customs of this people correspond to their 
religion ; they keep their dead for three days on 
the same bed where the person died : after which 
they bury him in a grave moderately deep, but 
with the head still uncovered. Here for several 
days they present him with different sorts of 
meats ; which, when they perceive he does not 
consume, they fill up the grave, and desist from 
desiring him to eat for the future. How, how 
can mankind be guilty of such strange absurdity, 



to entreat a dead body, already putrid, to partake 
of the banquet ! Where, I again repeat it, is hu- 
man reason! not only some men, but whole na- 
tions, seem divested of its illumination. Here 
we observe a whole country adoring a divinity 
through fear, and attempting to feed the dead. 
These are their most serious and religious occu- 
pations. Are these men rational, or are not the 
apes of Borneo more wise? 

Certain I am, O thou instructor of my youth ! 
that without philosophers, without some few vir- 
tuous men, who seem to be of a different nature 
from the rest of mankind, without such as these, 
the worship of a wicked divinity would surely be 
established over every part of the earth. Fear 
guides more to their duty than gratitude ; for one 
man who is virtuous from the love of virtue, from 
the obligation which he thinks he lies under to 
the Giver of all, there are ten thousand who are 
good only from their apprehensions of punish- 
ment. Could these last be persuaded, as the 
Epicureans were, that heaven had no thunders in 
store for the villain, they would no longer con- 
tinue to acknowledge subordination, or thank 
that Being who gave them existence. Adieu. 



LETTER XI. 

* To the same. 

From such a picture of nature in primeval sim- 
plicity, tell me, my much respected friend, are you 
in love with fatigue and solitude ? Do you sigh 
for the severe frugality of the wandering Tartar 
or regret being born amidst the luxury and dissi- 
mulation of the polite ? Rather tell me, has not 
every kind of life vices peculiarly its own ? Is it 
not a truth, that refined countries have more 
vices, but those not so terrible ; barbarous nations 
few, and they of the most hideous complexion 1 
Perfidy and fraud are the vices of civilized na- 
tions, credulity and violence those of the inhabi- 
tants of the desert. Does the luxury of the one 
produce half the evils of the inhumanity of the 
other? Certainly those philosophers who declaim 
against luxury, have but little understood its be- 
nefits ; they seem insensible, that to luxury we 
owe not onJy the greatest part of our knowledge, 
but even of our virtues. 

It may sound fine in the mouth of a declaimer, 
when he talks of subduing our appetites, of teach- 
ing every sense to be content with a bare suffi- 
ciency, and of supplying only the wants of nature ; 
but is there not more satisfaction in indulging 
those appetites, if with innocence and safety, than 
in restraining them ? Am not I better pleased 
in enjoyment than in the sullen satisfaction of 
thinking that I can live without enjoyment? The 
more various our artificial necessities, the wider 
is our circle of pleasure ; for all pleasure consists 
in obviating necessities as they rise ; luxury, 
therefore, as it increases our wants, increases our 
capacity for happiness. 

Examine the history of any country remark- 
able for opulence and wisdom, you will find they 
would never have been wise, had they not been 
first luxurious : you will find poets, philosophers, 
and even patriots, marching in luxury's train. 
The reason is obvious ; we, then only are curious 
after knowledge, when we find it connected with 
sensual happiness. The senses ever point out 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



11 



tne way, and reflection comments upon the dis 
| covery. Inform a native of the desert of Kobi of 
the exact measure of the parallax of the moon, 
he finds no satisfaction at all in the information ; 
he wonders how any could take such pains, and 
lay out such treasures in order to solve so useless 
a difficulty ; but connect it with his happiness by 
showing that it improves navigation, that by such 
an investigation he may have a warmer coat, a 
better gun, or a finer knife, and he is instantly 
in raptures at so great an improvement. In short, 
we only desire to know what we desire to possess ; 
and whatever we may talk against it, luxury adds 
the spur to curiosity, and gives us a desire of be- 
coming more wise. 

But not our knowledge only, but our virtues, 
are improved by luxury. Observe the brown sa- 
vage of Thibet, to whom the fruits of the spread- 
ing pomegranate supply food, and its branches an 
habitation, such a character has few vices I grant, 
but those he has are of the most hideous nature ; 
rapine and cruelty are scarce crimes in his eye ; 
neither pity nor tenderness, which ennoble every 
virtue, have any place in his heart; he hates his 
enemies, and kills those he subdues. On the 
other hand, the polite Chinese and civilized Eu- 
ropean, seem even to love their enemies. I have 
just now seen an instance where the English have 
succoured those enemies whom their own coun- 
trymen have actually refused to relieve ! 

The greater the luxuries of every country, the 
more closely, politically speaking, is that country 
united. Luxury is the child of society alone ; the 
luxurious man stands in need of a thousand dif- 
ferent artists to furnish out his happiness ; it is 
more likely, therefore, that he should be a good 
citizen who is connected by motives of self-inter- 
est with so many, than the abstemious man, who 
is united to none. 

In whatsoever light, therefore, we consider lux- 
ury, whether as employing a number of hands na- 
turally too feeble for more laborious employments, 
as finding a variety of occupations for others who 
might be totally idle, or as furnishing out new in- 
lets to happiness, without encroaching on mutual 
property; in whatever light we regard it, weshali 
have reason to stand up in its defence, and the 
sentiment of Confucius still remains unshaken, 
' That we should enjoy as many of the luxuries of 
life as are consistent with our own safety, and the 
prosperity of others ; and that he who finds out a 
new pleasure is one of the most useful members 
of society.' 



LETTER XII. 

To the same. 

From the funeral solemnities of the Daures, who 
think themselves the politest people in the world, 
I must make a transition to the funeral solemni- 
ties of the English, who think themselves as po- 
lite as they. The numberless ceremonies which 
are used here when a person is sick, appear to me 
so many evident marks of fear and apprehension. 
Ask an Englishman, however, whether he is 
afraid of death, and he boldly answers in the ne- 
gative; but observe his behaviour in circum- 
stances of approaching sickness, and you will find 
his actions give his assertions the lie. 



The Chinese are very sincere in this respect, 
they hate to die, and they confess their terrors ; a 
great part of their life is spent in preparing things 
proper for their funeral ; a poor artizan will spend 
half his income in providing himself a tomb 
twenty years before he wants it, and denies him- 
self the necessaries of life that he may be amply 
provided for when he shall want them no more. 

But people of distinction in England really de- 
serve pity, for they die in circumstances of the 
most extreme distress. It is an established rule, 
never to let a man know that he is dying ; physi- 
cians are sent for, the clergy are called, and every 
thing passes in silent solemnity round the sick 
bed. The patient is in agonies, looks round for 
pity; yet not a single creature will say that he is 
dying. If he is possessed of fortune, his relations 
entreat him to make his will, as it may restore 
the tranquillity of his mind. He is desired to 
undergo the rites of the church ; for decency re- 
quires it. His friends take their leave, only be- 
cause they do not care to see him in pain. In 
short, a hundred stratagems are used to make him 
do what he might have been induced to perform 
only by being told, ' Sir, you are past all hopes, 
and had as good think decently of dying.' 

Besides all this, the chamber is darkened, the 
whole house echoes to the cries of the wife, the 
lamentations of the children, the grief of the ser- 
vants, and the sighs of friends. The bed is sur- 
rounded with priests and doctors in black, and 
only flambeaux emit a yellow gloom. "Where is 
the man, how intrepid soever, that would not 
shrink at such a hideous solemnity ? For fear of 
affrighting their expiring friends, the English 
practise all that can fill them with terror. Strange 
effect of human prejudice, thus to torture merely 
from mistaken tenderness ! 

You see, my friend, what contradictions there 
are in the tempers of those islanders ; when 
prompted by ambition, revenge, or disappoint- 
ment, they meet death with the utmost resolu- 
tion ; the very man who in his bed would have 
trembled at the aspect of a doctor, shall go with 
intrepidity to attack a bastion, or deliberately 
noose himself up in his garters. 

The passion of the Europeans for magnificent 
interments, is equally strong with that of the 
Chinese. When a tradesman dies, his frightful 
face is painted up by an undertaker, and placed 
in a proper situation to receive company ; this is 
called lying in state. To this disagreeable spec- 
tacle all the idlers in town flock, and learn to 
loathe the wretched dead, whom they despised 
when living. In this manner you see some, who 
would have refused a shilling to save the life of 
their dearest friend, bestow thousands oh adorning 
their putrid corpse. I have been told of a fellow, 
who, grown rich by the price of tuood, left it in 
his will that he should lie in state; and thus un- 
knowingly gibbeted himself into infamy, when he 
might have otherwise quietly retired into ob- 
livion. 

When the person is buried, the next care is to 
make his epitaph; they are generally reckoned 
best which flatter most : such relations, therefore, 
as have received most benefits from the defunct, 
discharge this friendly office, and generally flatter 
in proportion to their joy. When we read these 
monumental histories of the dead, it may be 
juiflysaid, that all men are equal in the dust; for 



12 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



they all appear equally remarkable for being the 
most sincere Christians, the most benevolent 
neighbours, and the honestest men of their time. 
To go through a European cemetery, one would be 
apt to wonder how mankind could have so basely 
degenerated from such excellent ancestors ; every 
tomb pretends to claim your reverence and regret ; 
some are praised for piety, in those inscriptions, 
who never entered the temple until they were 
dead ; some are praised for being excellent poets, 
who were never mentioned, except for their 
dulness, when living ; others for sublime orators, 
who never were noted except for their impudence ; 
and others still for military achievements, who 
were never in any other skirmishes but with the 
watch. Some even make epitaphs for themselves, 
and bespeak the reader's good-will. It were 
indeed to be wished, that every man would early 
learn, in this manner, to make his own ; that he 
would draw it up in terms as flattering as pos- 
sible ; and that he would make it the employment 
of his life to deserve it! 

I have not yet been in a place called West- 
minster Abbey, but soon intend to visit it. There, 
I am told, I shall see justice done to deceased 
merit; none, I am told, are permitted to be 
buried there but such as have adorned as well as 
improved mankind. There no intruders, by the 
influence of friends or fortune, presume to mix 
their unhallowed ashes with philosophers, heroes, 
and poets. Nothing but true merit has a place 
in that awful sanctuary. The guardianship of 
the tombs is committed to several reverend 
priests, who are never guilty, for a superior 
reward, of taking down the names of good men, 
'•» make room for others of equivocal character, 
nor ever profane the sacred walls with pageants, 
that posterity cannot know, or shall blush to own. 

I always was of opinion, that sepulchral honours 
of this kind should be considered as a national 
concern, and not trusted to the care of the priests 
of any country, how respectable soever ; but from 
the conduct of the reverend personages, whose 
disinterested patriotism I shall shortly be able to 
discover, I am taught to retract my former sen- 
timents. It is true, the Spartans and the Per- 
sians made a fine political use of sepulchral 
vanity; they permitted none to be thus interred, 
who had not fallen in the vindication of their 
country. A monument thus became a real mark 
of distinction; it nerved the hero's arm with ten- 
fold vigour; and he fought without fear, who 
o?ily fought for a grave. Farewell. 




I am totd that none harp a place here hnl character* or the 
distinguished merit." 



LETTER XIII. 



From the same. 



I am just returned from Westminster Abbey r the 
place of sepulture for the philosophers, heroes, 
and kings of England. What a gloom do monu- 
mental inscriptions, and all the venerable remains 
of deceased merit inspire ! Imagine a temple 
marked with the hand of antiquity, eolemn a» 
religious awe, adorned with all the magnificence 
of barbarous profusion, dim windows, fretted pil- 
lars, long colonnades, and dark ceilings. Think, 
then, what were my sensations at being intro- 
duced to such a scene. I stood in the midst of 
the temple, and threw my eyes round on the 
walls, filled with the statues, the incriptions, and 
the monuments of the dead. 

'Alas!' I said to myself, 'how does pride at- 
tend the puny child of dust even to the grave I 
Even humble as I am, I possess more consequence 
in the present scene than the greatest hero of 
them all ; they have toiled for an hour to gain a 
transient immortality, and are at length retired 
to the grave, where they have no attendant but 
the worm, none to flatter but the epitaph.' 

As I was indulging such reflections, a gentle- 
man, dressed in black, perceiving me to be a 
stranger, came up, entered into conversation, and 
politely offered to be my instructor and guide 
through the temple. ' If any monument,' said 
he, 'should particularly excite your curiosity, I 
shall endeavour to satisfy your demands.' I ac- 
cepted, with thanks, the gentleman's offer, adding, 
that I was come to observe the policy, the wisdom, 
and the justice of the English, in conferring re- 
wards upon deceased merit. ' If adulation like 
this,' continued I, 'be properly conducted, as it 
can nowise injure those who are flattered, so it 
may be a glorious incentive to those who are 
now capable of enjoying it. It is the duty of 
every good government to turn this monumental 
pride to its own advantage ; to become strong in 
the aggregate from the weakness of the individual. 
If none but the truly great have a place in this 
awful repository, a temple like this will give the 
finest lessons of morality, and be a strong in- 
centive to true ambition. I am told, that none 
have a place here but characters of the most dis- 
tinguished merit.' The man in black seemed 
impatient at my observations, so I discontinued 
my remarks, and we walked on together to take 



THE CITIZKN OF THE WORLD. 



13 



a view of every particular monument in order as 
it lay. 

As the eye is naturally caught by the finest 
objects, I could not avoid being particularly cu- 
rious about one monument, which appeared more 
beautiful than the rest: 'that,' said I to my 
guide, ' I take to be the tomb of some very great 
man. By the peculiar excellence of the work- 
manship, and the magnificence of the design, this 
must be a trophy raised to the memory of some 
king who has saved his country from ruin ; or 
lawgiver, who has reduced his fellow-citizens 
from anarchy into just subjection.' — ' It is not re- 
quisite,' replied my companion, smiling, ' to have 
such qualifications, in order to have a very fine 
monument here: more humble abilities will 
suffice.' — ' What, I suppose then, the gaining two 
or three battles, or the taking half a score towns, 
is thought a sufficient qualification?'— 'Gaining 
battles, or taking towns,' replied the man in 
black, 'may be of service; but a gentleman may 
have a very fine monument here, without ever 
seeing a battle or a siege.'— ' This then is the 
monument of some poet, I presume, of <me whose 
wit has gained immortality?' — 'No, sir,' replied 
my guide, 'the gentleman who lies here never 
made verses; and as for wit, he despised it in 
others, because he had none himself.' — ' Pray tell 
me then, in a word,' said I, peevishly, 'what is 
the great man who lies here particularly remark- 
able for?' — 'Remarkable, sir!' said my com- 
panion; 'why, sir, the gentleman that lies here 
is remarkable, very remarkable — for a tomb in 
Westminster Abbey.' — 'But, "head of my an- 
cestors !" how has he got here ? I fancy he could 
never bribe the guardians of the temple to give 
him a place. Should he not be ashamed to be 
seen among company, where even moderate merit 
would look like infamy?' — ' I suppose,' replied the 
man in. black, 'the gentleman was rich, and his 
friends, as is usual in such a case, told him he 
was great. He readily believed them; the guar- 
dians of the temple, as they got by the self-de- 
lusion, were ready to believe him too ; so he paid 
his money for a fine monument, and the workman, 
as you see, has made him one of the most beau- 
tiful. Think not, however, that this gentleman 
is singular in his desire of being buried among 
the great; there are ssveral others in the temple, 
who, hated and shunned by the great while alive, 
have come here, fully resolved to keep them com- 
pany now they are dead.' 

As we walked along to a particular part of the 
temple, — ' There,' says the gentleman, pointing 
with his finger, 'that is the poets' corner; there 
you see the monuments of Shakspeare, and Milton, 
and Prior, and Drayton.'— ' Drayton !' I replied, 
' I never heard of him before ; but I have been 
told of one Pope, is he there ?' — ' It is time enough,' 
replied my guide, 'these hundred years; he is 
not long dead ; people have not done hating him 
yet.' — ' Strange,' cried I, ' can any be found to 
hate a man whose life was wholly spent in enter- 
taining and instructing his fellow-creatures !' — 
• Yes,' says my guide, ' they hate him for that 
very reason. There are a set of men called 
answerers of books, who take upon them to watch 
the republic of letters, and distribute reputation 
by the sheet ; they somewhat resemble the eunuchs 
in a seraglio, who are incapable of giving pleasure 
themselves, and hinder those that would. These 
answerers have no other employment but to cry 



out dunce and scribbler; to praise the dead and 
revile the living; to grant a man of confessed 
abilities some small share of merit; to applaud 
twenty blockheads in order to gain the reputation 
of candour; and to revile the moral character of 
the man whose writings they cannot injure. Such 
wretches are kept in pay by some mercenary book- 
seller, or more frequently, the bookseller himself 
takes this dirty work off their hands, as all that 
is required is to be very abusive and very dull. 
Every poet of any genius is sure to find such 
enemies; he feels, though he seems to despise 
their malice; they make him miserable here, and, 
in the pursuit of empty fame, at last he gains solid 
anxiety.' 

"Has this been the case with every poet I see 
here?' cried I. — ' Yes, with every mother's son of 
them,' replied he, 'except he happened to be born 
a mandarine. If he has much money, he may 
buy reputation from your book-answerers, as well 
as a monument from the guardians of the 
temple.' 

' But are there not some men of distinguished 
taste, as in China, who are willing to patronize 
men of merit, and soften the rancour of malevo- 
lent dulness?' 

'I own there are many,' replied the man in 
black, 'but, alas J sir, the book-answerers crowd 
about them, and call themselves the writers of 
books; and the patron is too indolent to distin- 
guish; thus poets are kept at a distance, while 
their enemies eat up all their rewards at the man- 
darine's table.' 

Leaving this part of the temple, we made up to 
an iron gate, through which my companion told 
me we were to pass in order to see the monu- 
ments of the kings. Accordingly I marched up 
without further ceremony, and was going to 
enter, when a person who held the gate in his 
hand told me I must pay first. I was surprised 
at such a demand, and asked the man whether 
the people of England kept a show? whether the 
paltry sum he demanded was not a national re- 
proach? whether it was not more to the honour 
of the country to let their magnificence or their 
antiquities be openly seen, than thus meanly to 
tax a curiosity which tended to their own honour? 
' As for your questions,' replied the gate-keeper, 
'to be sure they may be very right, because I 
don't understand them; but, as for that there 
threepence, I farm it from one, who rents it from 
another, who hires it from a third, who leases it 
from the guardians of the temple, and we all 
must live.' I expected, upon paying here, to see 
something extraordinary, since what I had seen 
for nothing filled me with so much surprise ; but 
in this I was disappointed: there was little more 
within than black coffins, rusty armour, tattered 
standards, and some few slovenly figures in wax. 
I was sorry I had paid, but I comforted myself 
by considering it would be my last payment. A 
person attended us, who, without once blushing, 
told a hundred lies ; he talked of a lady who died 
by pricking her finger ; of a king with a golden 
head, and twenty such pieces of absurdity. 'Look 
ye there, gentlemen,' says he, pointing to an old 
oak chair, 'there's a curiosity for ye; in that 
chair the kings of England were crowned; you 
see also a stone underneath, and that stone is 
Jacob's pillow.' I could see no curiosity either in 
the oak chair, or the stone; could I, indeed, 
behold one of the old kings of England seated in 



14 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



this, or Jacob's head laid upon the other, there 
might be something curious in the sight; but in 
the. present case there was no more reason for my 
surprise than if I should pick a stone from their 
streets, and call it a curiosity, merely because 
one of their kings happened to tread upon it as he 
passed in a procession. 

From hence our conductor led us through 
several dark walks and winding ways, uttering 
lies, talking to himself, and flourishing a wand 
which he held in his hand. He reminded me of 
the black magicians of Kobi. After we had been 
almost fatigued with a variety of objects, he at 
last desired me to. consider attentively a certain 
suit of armour, which seemed to show nothing 
remarkable. ' This armour,' said he, ' belonged 
to General Monk.' — 'Very surprising, that a ge- 
neral should wear armour!'— 'And pray,' added 
he, 'observe this cap, this is General Monk's 
cap.' — ' Very strange, indeed, very strange, that a 
general should have a cap also! Pray, friend, 
what might this cap have cost originally?' — 
'That, sir,' says he, 'I don't know; but this cap 
is all the wages I have for my trouble.' — 'A very 
small recompense truly,' said I. — 'Not so very 
small,' replied he, ' for every gentleman puts 
some money into it, and I spend the money.' — 
' What, more money ! still more money !' — ' Every 
gentleman gives something, sir.' — ' I'll give thee 
nothing,' returned I, ' the guardians of the temple 
should pay you your wages, friend, and not per- 
mit you to squeeze thus from every spectator. 
When we pay our money at the door to see a 
show, we never give more as we are going out. 
Sure the guardians of the temple can never think 
they get enough. Show me the gate ; if I stay 
longer, I may probably meet with more of those 
ecclesiastical beggars.' 

Thus leaving the t»mple precipitately, I re- 
turned to my lodgings, in order to ruminate over 
what was great, and to despise what was mean, 
in the occurrences of the day. 



LETTER XIV. 

From the same. 

I was some days ago agreeably surprised by a 
message from a lady of distinction, who sent me 
word that she most passionately desired the 
pleasure of my acquaintance; and, with the 
utmost impatience, expected an interview. I 
will not deny, my dear Fum Hoam, but that my 
vanity was raised at such an invitation; I flat- 
tered myself that she had seen me in some public 
place, and had conceived an affection for my 
person, which thus induced her to deviate from 
the usual decorums of the sex. My imagination 
painted her in all the bloom of youth and beauty. 
I fancied her attended by the loves and graces, 
and I set out with the most pleasing expectations 
of seeing the conquest I had made. 

When I was introduced into her apartment, my 
expectations were quickly at an end ; I perceived 
a little shrivelled figure indolently reclined on a 
sofa, who nodded by way of approbation at my 
approach. This, as I was afterwards informed, 
was the lady herself, a woman equally distin- 
guished for rank, politeness, taste, and under- 
standing. As I was dressed after the fashion of 
Europe, she had taken me for an Englishman, 



and consequently saluted me in her ordinary 
manner; but when the footman informed her 
grace that I was the gentleman from China, she 
instantly lifted herself from the couch, while her 
eyes sparkled with unusual vivacity. ' Bless me ! 
can this be the gentleman that was born so far 
from home? What an unusual share of some- 
thingness in his whole appearance ! Lord, how I 
am charmed with the outlandish cut of his face ! 
how bewitching the exotic breadth of his fore- 
head! I would give the world to see him in his 
own country dress. Pray, turn about, sir, and 
let me see you behind. There ! there's a travelled 
air for you. You that attend there, bring up a 
plate of beef cut into small pieces; I have a 
violent passion to see him eat. Pray, sir, have 
you got your chop-sticks about you? It will be so 
pretty to see the meat carried to the mouth with 
a jerk. Pray speak a little Chinese; I have 
learned some of the language myself. Lord, have 
you nothing pretty from China about you ; some- 
thing that one does not know what to do with? 
I have got twenty things from China that are of 
no use in the world. Look at those jars, they are 
of the right pea-green ; these are the furniture.' — 
' Dear, madam,' said I, ' these, though they may 
appear fine in your eyes, are but paltry to a 
Chinese; but, as they are useful utensils, it is 
proper they should have a place in every apart- 
ment.' — ' Useful ! sir,' replied the lady, ' sure you 
mistake, they are of no use in the world.' — 
* What ! are they not filled with an infusion of tea 
as in China?' replied I. — ' Quite empty and useless, 
upon my honour, sir.' — ' Then they are the most 
cumbrous and clumsy furniture in the world, as 
nothing is truly elegant but what unites use with 
beauty.'—' I protest,' says the lady, ' I shall begin 
to suspect thee of being an actual barbarian. I 
suppose you hold my two beautiful pagods in 
contempt.' What!' cried I, 'has Fohi spread 
his gross superstitions here also? Pagods of all 
kinds are my aversion.' — 'A Chinese, a traveller, 
and want taste ! it surprises me. Pray, sir, exa- 
mine the beauties of that Chinese temple which 
you see at the end of the garden. Is there any 
thing in China more beautiful ?' — ' Where I stand, 
I see nothing, madam, at the end of the garden, 
that may not as well be called an Egyptian 
pyramid as a Chinese temple ; for that little 
building in view is as like the one as t'other.' — 
'What! sir, is not that a Chinese temple; you 
must surely be mistaken. Mr. Frieze, who de- 
signed it, calls it one, and nobody disputes his 
pretensions to taste.' I now found it vain to con- 
tradict the lady in any thing she thought fit to 
advance ; so was resolved rather to act the disciple 
than the instructor. She took me through several 
rooms, all furnished, as she told me, in the 
Chinese manner; sprawling dragons, squatting 
pagods, and clumsy mandarines, were stuck upon 
every shelf; in turning round one must have 
used caution not to demolish a part of the pre- 
carious furniture. 

In a house like this, thought I, one must live 
continually upon the watch ; the inhabitant must 
resemble a knight in an enchanted castle, who 
expects to meet an adventure at every turning. 
'But, madam,' said I, 'do no accidents ever 
happen to all this finery ?' — ' Man, sir,' replied the 
lady, ' is bora to misfortunes, and it is but fit I 
should have a share. Three weeks ago, a careless 
servant snapped off the head of a favourite man- 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



15 



darine; I had scarce done grieving for that, when 
a monkey broke a beautiful jar; this I took the 
more to heart, as the injury was done me by a 
friend: however, I survived the calamity; when, 
yesterday, crash went half a dozen dragons upon 
the marble hearthstone; and yet I live; I survive 
it all: you can't conceive what comfort I find 
under afflictions from philosophy. There is 
Seneca, and Bolingbroke, and some others, who 
I guide me through life, and teach me to support 
! its calamities.' I could not but smile at a woman 
! who makes her own misfortunes, and then de- 
plores the miseries of her situation. Wherefore, 
tired of acting with dissimulation, and willing to 
indulge my meditations in solitude, I took leave 
just as the servant was bringing in a plate of 
beef, pursuant to the directions of his mistress. 
Adieu. 



LETTER XV. 

I From the same. 
The better sort here pretend to the utmost com- 
passion for animals of every kind ; to hear them 
speak, the stranger would be apt to imagine they 
could hardly hurt the gnat that stung them ; they 
seem so tender, and so full of pity, that one would 
take them for the harmless friends of the whole 
creation ; the protectors of the meanest insect or 
reptile that was privileged with existence. And 
yef, would you believe it? I have seen the very 
men who have thus boasted of their tenderness, 
at the same time devouring the flesh of six dif- 
ferent animals tossed up in a fricassee. Strange 
contrariety of conduct ! they pity, and they eat the 
objects of their compassion ! The lion roars with 
terror over its captive ; the tiger sends forth its 
hideous shriek to intimidate its prey; no creature 
shows any fondness for its short-lived prisoner, 
except a man and a cat. 

Man was born to live with innocence and sim- 
plicity, but he has deviated from nature ; he was 
born to share the bounties of heaven, but he has 
monopolized them; he was born to govern the 
brute creation, but he has become their tyrant. 
If an epicure now shall happen to surfeit on his 
last night's feast, twenty animals the next day 
are to undergo the most exquisite tortures in 
order to provoke his appetite to another guilty 
meal. Hail, O ye simple honest brahmins of the 
east ! ye inoffensive friends of all that were born 
to happiness as well as you! You never sought a 
short-lived pleasure from the miseries of other 
creatures. You never studied the tormenting 
arts of ingenious refinement; you never surfeited 
upon a guilty meal. How much more purified 
and refined are all your senastions than ours; 
you distinguish every element with the utmost 
precision ; a stream untasted before is new luxury, 
a change of air is a new banquet, too refined for 
western imaginations to conceive. 

Though the Europeans do not hold the trans- 
migration of souls, yet one of their doctors has, 
with great force of argument, and great plausi- 
bility of reasoning, endeavoured to prove that the 
bodies of animals are the habitations of demons 
and wicked spirits, which are obliged to reside in 
these prisons till the resurrection pronounces 
their everlasting punishment ; but are previously 
condemned to suffer all the pains and hardships 
inflicted upon them by man, or by each other 



here. If this be the case, it may frequently hap- 
pen, that while we whip pigs to death, or bcil live 
lobsters, we are putting some old acquaintance, 
some near relation, to excruciating tortures, and 
are serving him up to the very same table where 
he was once the most welcome companion. 

• Kabul,' says the Zendavesta, • was born on the 
rushy banks of the river Mawra; his possessions 
were great, and his luxuries kept pace with the 
affluence^f his fortune; he hated the harmless 
Drahmins, and despised their holy religion ; every 
day his table was decked out with the flesh of a 
hundred different animals, and his cooks had a 
hundred different ways of dressing it, to solicit 
even satiety. 

' Notwithstanding all his eating, he did not 
arrive at old age ; he died of a surfeit, caused by 
intemperance : upon this, his soul was carried off, 
in order to take its trial before a select assembly 
of the souls of those animals which his gluttony 
had caused to be slain, and who were now appoint- 
ed his judges. 

* He trembled before a tribunal, to every mem- 
ber of which he had formerly acted as an unmer- 
ciful tyrant ; he sought for pity, but found none 
disposed to grant it. ' Does he not remember,' 
cries the angry boar, ' to what agonies I was put, 
not to satisfy his hunger, but his vanity ? I was first 
hunted to death, and my flesh scarce • thought 
worthy of coming once to his table. Were my 
advice followed, he should do penance in the 
shape of a hog, which in life he most resembled.' 
— • I am rather,' cries a sheep upon the bench, 
' for having him suffer under the appearance of a 
lamb, we may then send him through four cr five 
transmigrations in the space of amonth.' — ' Were 
my voiceof any weightin the assembly,' cries acalf, 
' he should rather assume such a form as mine ; 
I was bled every day, in order to make my flesh 
white, and at last killed without mercy.' — ' Would 
it not be wiser,' cries a hen, ' to cram him in the 
shape of a fowl, and then smother him in his 
own blood, as I was served?' The majority of the 
assembly were pleased with this punishment, and 
were going to condemn him without further delay, 
when the ox rose up to give his opinion; • I am 
informed,' says this counsellor, ' that the prisoner 
at the bar has left a wife with child behind him. By 
my knowledge in divination, I foresee that this child 
will be a son, decrepid, feeble, sickly, a plague to 
himself and all about him. What say you then, 
my companions, if we condemn the father to ani- 
mate the body of his own son, and by this means 
make him feel in himself those miseries his in- 
temperance must otherwise have entailed upon 
his posterity?' The whole court applauded the 
ingenuity of his torture, they thanked him for his 
advice. Kabul was driven once more to revisit the 
earth ; and his soul, in the body of his own son, 
passed a period of thirty years, loaded with 
misery, anxiety, and disease.' 



LETTER XVI. 

| From' the same. 
I kkow not whether I am more obliged to the 
Chinese missionaries for the instruction I have 
received from them, or prejudiced by the false- 
hoods they have made me believe. By them 1 
was told that the Pope was universally allowed to 



16 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



be a man, and placed at the head of the church , 
in England, however, they plainly prove him to 
be a whore in man's clothes, and often burn him 
in effigy as an impostor. A thousand books have 
been written on either side of the question ; priesU 
are eternally disputing against each other ; and 
those mouths that want argument are filled with 
abuse. Which party must I believe, or shall I 
give credit to neither? When I survey the absur- 
dities and falsehoods with which the books of the 
Europeans are filled, I thank heaven for having 
been born in China, and that . I have sagacity 
enough to detect imposture. 

The Europeans reproach us with false history 
and fabulous chronology ; how should they blush 
to see their own books, many of which are written 
by the doctors of their religion, filled with the 
most monstrous fables, and attested with the ut- 
most solemnity. The bounds of a letter do not 
permit me to mention all the absurdities of this 
kind, which, in my reading, I have met with. 
I shall confine myself to the accounts which some 
of their lettered men give of the persons of some 
of the inhabitants on our globe. And, not satisfied 
with the most solemn asseverations, they some- 
times pretend to have been eye-witnesses of what 
they describe. 

A Christian doctor, in one of his principal per- 
formances,* says, that it was not impossible for a 
whole nation to have but one eye in the middle of 
the forehead. He is not satisfied with leaving it in 
doubt; but in another work,t assures us, that the 
fact was certain, and that he himself, was an eye- 
witness of it. 'When,' says he, 'I took a journey into 
Ethiopia, in company with several other servants of 
Christ, in order to preach the gospel there, I beheld . 
in the southern provinces of the country, a nation 
which had only one eye in the midst of their 
foreheads.' 

You will no doubt be surprised, reverend Fum, 
with this author's effrontery; but alas! he is not 
alone in this story ; he has only borrowed it from 
several others who wrote before him. Solinus 
creates another nation of Cyclops, the Arimas- 
pians, who inhabit those countries that border on 
the Caspian sea. This author goes on to tell us 
of a people of India, who have but one leg, and 
one eye, and yet are extremely active, run with 
great swiftness, and live by hunting. These 
people we scarce know how to pity or admire; 
but the men whom Pliny calls Cynamolci, who 
have got the heads of dogs, really deserve our 
compassion. Instead of language they express 
their sentiments by barking. Solinus confirms 
what Pliny mentions ; and Simon Mayole, a French 
bishop, talks of them as of particular and familiar 
acquaintances. ' After passing the deserts of 
Egypt,' says he, ' we meet with the Kunokephaloi, 
who inhabit those regions that border on Ethi- 
opia; they live by hunting; they cannot speak, 
but whistle; their chins resemble a serpent's 
head; their hands are armed with long sharp 
claws ; their breast resembles that of a greyhound ; 
and they excel in swiftness and agility.' Would 
you think it, my friend, that these odd kind of 
people are, notwithstanding their figure, exces- 
sively delicate ; not even an alderman's wife, or 
Chinese mandarine, can excel them in this parti- 
cular. ' These people,' continues our faithful 

* Augustin. de Civit Dei, lib. xvi. p. 4SS. 
+ Augustin. ad fratres in Ereroo, Sena. xurii . 



bishop, ' never refuse wine; love roast and boiled 
meat; they are particularly curious in having 
their meat well dressed, and spurn at it, if in the, 
least tainted. When the Ptolemies reigned in 
Egypt,' says he, a little farther on, ' those men 
with dog's heads taught grammar and music' 
For men who had no voices to teach music, and 
who could not speak, to teach grammar, is, I con- 
fess, a little extraordinary. Did ever the disciples 
of Fohi broach any thing more ridiculous? 

Hitherto we have seen men with heads strangely 
deformed, and with dog's heads ; but what would 
you say, if you heard of men without any heads 
at all? Pomponius Mela, Solinus, and Aulus 
Gellius, describe them to our hand : ' The Ble- 
mise have a nose, eyes, and mouth on their breasts ; 
or, as others will have it, placed on their shoul- 
ders.' 

One would think, that these authors had an 
antipathy to the human form, and were resolved 
to make a new figure of their own ; but let us do 
them justice ; though they sometimes deprive us 
of a leg, an arm, a head, or some such trifling part 
of the body, they often as liberally bestow upon 
us something that we wanted before. Simon 
Mayole seems our particular friend in this respect: 
if he has denied heads to one part of mankind, he 
has given tails to another. He describes many of the 
English of his time, which is not more than a 
hundred years ago, as having tails. His own 
words are as follows : ' In England there are some 
families which have tails, as a punishment for 
deriding an Augustin friar sent by St. Gregory, 
and who preached in Dorsetshire. They sowed 
the tails of different animals to his clothes ; but 
soon they found those tails entailed on them and 
their posterity for ever.' It is certain, that the 
author had some grounds for this description ; 
many of the English wear tails to their wigs to 
this very day, as a mark, I suppose, of the anti- 
quity of their families, and perhaps as a symbol 
of those tails with which they were formerly dis- 
tinguished by nature. 

You see, my friend, there is nothing so ridicu- 
lous that has not at some time been said by some 
philosopher. The writers of books in Europe 
seem to think themselves authorised to say what 
they please ; and an ingenious philosopher among 
them * has openly asserted, that he would under- 
take to persuade the whole republic of readers to 
believe that the sun was neither the cause of light 
nor heat, if he could only get six philosophers on 
his side. Farewell. 



LETTER XVII. 

From the same. 
Were an Asiatic politician to read the treaties of 
peace and friendship that have been annually 
making for more than a hundred years among the 
inhabitants of Europe, he would probably be sur- 
prised how it should ever happen that Christian 
princes could quarrel among each other. Their 
compacts for peace are drawn up with the utmost 
precision, and ratified with the greatest solemnity; 
to these each party promises a sincere and invio- 
lable obedience, and all wears the appearance of 
open friendship and unreserved reconciliation. 
Yet, notwithstanding those treaties, the people 

* Fontenelle. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



17 



of Europe are almost continually at war. There 
is nothing more easy than to break a treaty, rati- 
fied in all the usual forms, and yet neither party 
be the aggressor. One side, for instance, breaks 
a trifling article by mistake, the opposite party 
upon this makes a small but premeditated repri- 
sal ; this brings on a return of greater from the 
other; both sides complain of injuries and infrac- 
tions; war is declared; they beat, are beaten; 
some two or three hundred thousand men are 
killed; they grow tired, leave off just where they 
began; and so sit coolly down to make new 
treaties. 

The English and French seem to place them- 
selves foremost among the champion states of 
Europe. Though parted by a narrow sea, yet 
are they entirely of opposite characters ; and from 
their vicinity, are taught to fear and admire each 
other. They are at present engaged in a very de- 
structive war, have already spilled much blood, 
are excessively irritated ; and all upon account of 
one side's desiring to wear greater quantities of 
furs than the other. 

The pretext of the war is about some lands a 
thousand leagues off; a country, cold, desolate, 
and hideous; a country belonging to a people who 
were in possession from time immemorial. The 
savages of Canada claim a property in the country 
in dispute ; they have all the pretensions which 
'ong possession can confer. Here they had 
reigned fox ages without rivals in dominion, and 
knew no enemies but the prowling bear or insi- 
dious tig»r ; their native forests produced all the 
necessaries of life, and they found ample luxury 
in the enjoyment. In this manner they might 
have continued to live to eternity, had not the 
English been informed, that those countries pro- 
duced furs in great abundance. From that mo- 
ment the country became an object of desire: it 
was found that furs were things very much wanted 
in England; the ladies edged some of their 
clothes with fur, and muffs were worn both by 
gentlemen and ladies. In short, furs were found 
indispensably necessary for the happiness of the 
state : and the king was consequently petitioned 
to grant, not only the country of Canada, but all 
the savages belonging to it, to the subjects of 
England, in order to have the people supplied 
with proper quantities of this necessary commo- 
dity. 

So very reasonable a request was immediately 
complied with, and large colonies were sent 
abroad to procure furs and take possession. The 
French who were equally in want of furs, (for they 
are as fond of muffs and tippets as the English,) 
made the very same request to their monarch, and 
met with the same gracious reception from their 
king, who generously granted what was not his to 
give. Wherever the French landed they called 
the country their own; and the English took 
possession wherever they came, upon the same 
equitable pretensions. The harmless savages 
made no opposition ; and, could the intruders 
have agreed together, they might peaceably have 
shared this desolate country between them. But 
they quarrelled about the boundaries of their 
settlements, about grounds and rivers, to which 
neither side could show any other right than that 
of power, and which neither could occupy but by 
usurpation. Such is the contest, that no honest 
man can hardly wish success to either party. 

The war has continued for some time with 



various success. At first, the French seemed 
victorious ; but the English have of late dispos- 
sessed them of the whole country in dispute. 
Think not, however, that success on one side is 
the harbinger of peace ; on the contrary, both 
parties must be heartily tired to effect even a tem- 
porary reconciliation. It should seem the busi- 
ness of the victorious party to offer terms of 
peace; but there are many in England, who, 
encouraged by success, are still for protracting the 
war. 

The best English politicians, however, are sen- 
sible, that to keep their present conquests would 
rather be a burden than an advantage .to them ; 
rather a diminution of their strength than an 
increase of power. It is in the politic as in the 
human constitution ; if the limbs grow too large for 
the body, their size, instead of improving, will dimi- 
nish the vigour of the whole. The colonies should 
always bear an exact proportion to the mother coun- 
try ; when they grow populous, they grow powerful, 
and by becoming powerful they become independent 
also. Thus subordination is destroyed and a country 
swallowed up in the extent of its own dominions. 
The Turkish empire would be more formidable, 
were it Jess extensive : were it not for those coun- 
tries which it can neither command, nor give entirely 
away, which it is obliged to protect, but from 
which it has no power to exact obedience. 

Yet. obvious as these truths are, there are 
many Englishmen who are for transplanting 
new colonies into this late acquisition, for peopling 
the deserts of America with the refuse of their 
countrymen, and (as they express it) with the 
waste of an exuberant nation. But who are those 
unhappy creatures who are to be thus drained 
away? Not the sickly, for they are unwelcome 
guests abroad as well as at home ; nor the idle, 
for they would starve as well behind the Appla- 
chian mountains, as in the streets of London. 
This refuse is composed of the laborious and en- 
terprising, of such men as can be serviceable to 
their country at home, of men who ought to be 
regarded as the sinews of the people.and cherished 
with every degree of political indulgence. And 
what are the commodities which this colony, when 
established, are to produce in return ? Why, raw 
silk, hemp, and tobacco. England, therefore, must 
make an exchange of her best and bravest subjects 
for raw silk, hemp, and tobacco ; her hardy vete- 
rans and honest tradesmen must be trucked for a 
box of snuff or a silk petticoat. Strange absur- 
dity ! Sure the politics of the Daures are not more 
strange, who sell their religion, their wives, and 
their liberty, for a glass bead, or a paltry penknife. 
Farewell. 



IS 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 




!e there perceived a lady dressed in the deepest mourning (being 
clothed all over in white,) fanning the wet clay that was raised 
over one of the graves with a large fan, which she held in her 
hand." 



LETTER XVIII. 

From the same. 



The English loye their wives with much passion, 
the Hollanders with much prudence ; the English, 
when they give their hands, frequently give their 
hearts; the Dutch give the hand, but keep the 
heart wisely in their own possession. The Eng- 
lish love with violence, and expect violent love in 
return ; the Dutch are satisfied with the slightest 
acknowledgments, for they give little away. The 
English expend many of the matrimonial comforts 
in the first year ; the Dutch frugally husband out 
their pleasures, and are always constant because 
they are always indifferent. 

There seems very little difference between a 
Dutch bridegroom and a Dutch husband. Both 
"are equally possessed of the same cool unexpect- 
ing serenity , they can see neither Elysium nor 
Paradise behind the curtain, and Yifrrow is not 
more a goddess on the wedding night than after 
twenty years' matrimonial acquaintance. On the 
other hand, many of the English marry in order 
to have one happy month in their lives ; they 
seem incapable of looking beyond that period; they 
unite in hopes of finding rapture, and disappointed 
in that, disdain ever to accept of happiness. From 
hence we see open hatred ensue; or, what i> 
worse, concealed disgust under the appearance of 
fulsome endearment. Much formality, great ci- 
vility, and studied compliments, are exhibited in 
public; cross looks, sulky silence, or open recrimi- 
nation, fill up their hours of private entertainment. 

Hence I am taught, whenever I see a new- 
married ceuple more than ordinarily fond before 
faces, to consider them as attempting to impose 
upon the company or themselves, either hating 
each other heartily, or consuming that stock of 
ove in the beginning of their course which should 
serve them through their whole journey. Neither 
side should expect those instances of kindness 
which are inconsistent with true freedom or hap- 
piness to bestow. Love, when founded in the 
heart, will show itself in a thousand unpremedi- 
tated sallies of fondness ; but every cool delibe 
rate exhibition of the passion only argues little 
understanding, or great insincerity. 

Choang was the fondest husband, and Hansi 
the most endearing wife, in all the kingdom of 
Korea ; they were a pattern of conjugal bliss ; the 
inhabitants of the country around saw, and en- 



vied their felicity ; wherever Choang came, Hansi 
was sure to follow ; and in all the pleasures of 
Hansi, Choang was admitted a partner. They 
walked hand in hand wherever they appeared, 
showing every mark of mutual satisfaction, em- 
bracing, kissing, their mouths were fot ever 
joined, and, to speak in the language of anatomy, 
it was with them one perpetual anastomosis. 

Their love was so great, that it was thought no- 
thing could interrupt their mutual peace ; when 
an accident happened, which, in some measure, 
diminished the husband's assurance of his wife's 
fidelity; for love so refined as his was subject to 
a thousand little disquietudes. 

Happening to go one day alone among the 
tombs that lay at some distance from his house, 
he there perceived a lady dressed in the deepest 
mourning (being clothed all over in white,) fan- 
ning the wet clay that was raised over one of the 
graves with a large fan, which she held in her 
hand. Choang, who had early been taught wis- 
dom in the school of Lao, was unable to assign a 
cause for her present employment; and coming 
up, civilly demanded the reason. ' Alas !' re- 
plied the lady, her eyes bathed in tears, ' how is 
it possible to survive the loss of my husband, who 
lies buried in this grave ; he was the best of men, 
the tenderest of husbands ; with his dying breath 
he bid me never marry again till the earth over 
his grave should be dry; and here you see me 
steadily resolving to obey his will, and endeavour- 
ing to dry it with my fan. I have employed two 
whole days in fulfilling his commands, and am 
determined not to marry till they are punctually 
obeyed, even though his grave should take up 
four days in drying.' 

Choang, who was struck with the widow's 
beauty, could not, however, avoid smiling at her 
haste to be married ; but, concealing the cause of 
his mirth, civilly invited her home ; adding, that 
he had a wife who might be capable of giving her 
some consolation. As soon as he and his guest 
were returned, he imparted to Hansi in private 
what he had seen, and could not avoid expressing 
his uneasiness, that such might be his own case 
if his dearest wife should one day happen to sur- 
vive him. 

It is impossible to describe Hansi's resentment 
at so unkind a suspicion. As her passion for him 
was not only great but extremely delicate, she 
employed tears, anger, frowns, and exclamations, 
to chide his suspicions ; the widow herself was 
inveighed against, and Hansi declared she was re- 
solved never to sleep under the same roof with a 
wretch, who, like her, could be guilty of such bare- 
faced inconstancy. The night was cold and 
stormy; however, the stranger was obliged to 
seek another lodging, for Choang Avas not disposed 
to resist, and Hansi would have her away. 

The widow had scarce been gone an hour, when 
an old disciple of Choang's, whom he had not 
seen for many years, came to pay him a visit. 
He was received with the utmost ceremony, 
placed in the most honourable seat at supper, and 
the wine began to circulate with great freedom. 
Choang and Hansi exhibited open marks of mu- 
tual tenderness, and unfeigned reconciliation ; 
nothing could equal their apparent happiness ; so 
fond a husband, so obedient a wife, few could 
behold without regretting their own infelicity. 
When lo ! their happiness was at once disturbed 
oy a most fatal accident. Choang fell lifeless in 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WOULD. 



19 



an apoplectic fit upon the floor. Every method 
was used, but in vain, for his recovery. Hansi 
was at first inconsolable for his death : after some 
hours, however, she found spirits to read his last 
will. The ensuing day she began to moralize and 
talk wisdom ; the next day she was able to com- 
fort the young disciple; and, on the third, to 
shorten a long story, they both agreed to be 
married. 

There was now no longer mourning in the 
apartments ; the body of Choang was now thrust 
into an old coffin, and placed in one of the meanest 
rooms, there to lie unattended until the time pre- 
scribed by law for his interment. In the mean- 
time, Hansi and the young disciple were arrayed 
in the most magnificent habits ; the bride wore in 
her nose a jewel of immense price, and her lover 
was dressed in all the finery of his former master, 
together with a pair of artificial whiskers that 
reached down to his toes. The hour of their 
nuptials was arrived ; the whole family sym- 
pathized with their approaching happiness; the 
apartments were brightened up with lights that 
diffused the most exquisite perfume, and a 
lustre more bright than noonday. The lady ex- 
pected her youthful lover in an inner apartment 
with impatience; when his servant approaching 
with terror in his countenance, informed her, that 
his master was fallen into a fit, which would cer- 
tainly be mortal, unless the heart of a man lately 
dead could be obtained, and applied to his breast. 
She scarcely waited to hear the end of his story, 
when, tucking up her clothes, she ran with a 
mattock in her hand to the coffin where Choang 
lay, resolving to apply the heart of her dead 
husband as a cure for the living. She therefore 
struck the lid with the utmost violence. In a few 
blows the coffin flew open, when the body, which 
to all appearance had been dead, began to move. 
Terrified at the sight, Hansi dropped the mattock, 
and Choang walked out, astonished at his own 
situation, his wife's unusual magnificence, and 
her more amazing surprise. He went among the 
apartments, unable to conceive the cause of so 
much splendour. He was not long in suspense 
before his domestics informed him of every trans- 
action since he first became insensible. He could 
scarce believe what they told him, and went in 
pursuit of Hansi herself, in order to receive more 
certain information, or to reproach her infidelity. 
But she prevented his reproaches : he found her 
weltering in blood; for she had stabbed herself to 
the heart, being unable to survive her shame and 
disappointment. 

Choang, being a philosopher, was too wise to 
make any loud lamentations ; he thought it best 
to bear his loss with serenity; so, mending up the 
old coffin where he had lain himself, he placed 
his faithless spouse in his room ; and, unwilling 
that so many nuptial preparations should be ex- 
pended in vain, he the same night married the 
widow with the large fan. 

As they were both apprised of the foibles of 
each other beforehand, they knew how to excuse 
them after marriage. They lived together for 
many years in great tranquillity, and not ex- 
pecting rapture, made a shift to find contentment, 
larewell. 



LETTER XIX. 



From the same. 



The gentleman dressed in black, who was my 
companion through Westminster Abbey, came 
yesterday to pay me a visit ; and after drinking 
tea we both resolved to take a walk together, in 
order to enjoy the freshness of the country, which 
now begins to resume its verdure. Before we 
got out of the suburbs, however, we were stopped 
in one of the streets by a crowd of people, gathered 
in a circle round a man and his wife, who seemed 
too loud and too angry to be understood. The 
people were highly pleased with the dispute, 
which, upon inquiry, we found to be between 
Dr. Cacafogo, an apothecary, and his wife. The 
doctor, it seems, coming unexpectedly into his 
wife's apartment, found a gentleman there in cir- 
cumstances not in the least equivocal. 

The doctor, who was a person of nice honour, 
resolving to revenge the flagrant insult, imme- 
mediately.flew to the chimney-piece, and taking 
down a rusty blunderbuss, drew the trigger upon 
the defiler of his bed ; and the delinquent would 
certainly have been shot through the head, but 
that the piece had not been charged for many 
years. The gallant made a shift to escape through 
the window, but the lady still remained; and, as 
she well knew her husband's temper, undertook 
to manage the quarrel without a second. He was 
furious, and she loud; their noise had gathered 
ali the mob, who charitably assembled on the 
occasion, not to prevent, but to enjoy the quarrel. 

'Alas!' said I to my companion, 'what will 
become of this unhappy creature thus caught in 
adultery? Believe me, I pity her from my heart; 
her husband, I suppose, will show her no mercy. 
Will they burn her as in India, or behead her as 
in Persia ? Will they load her with stripes as in 
Turkey, or keep her in perpetual imprisonment, 
as with us in China? Pr'ythee, what is the wife's 
punishment in England for such offences?' — 
'When a l3dy is thus caught tripping,' replied my 
companion, 'they never punish her, but the 
husband.' — 'You surely jest,' interrupted I; 'I 
am a foreigner, and you would abuse my igno- 
rance !' — ' I am really serious,' returned he ; ' Dr. 
Cacafogo has caught his wife in the act ; but, as 
he had no witnesses, his small testimony goes for 
nothing; the consequence, therefore, of his dis- 
covery will be, that she may be packed off to live 
among her relations, and the doctor must be 
obliged to allow her a separate maintenance.' — 
' Amazing !' cried I, ' is it not enough that she is 
permitted to live separate from the object she 
detests, but must he give her money to keep her 
in spirits too ?' — ' That he must,' says my guide, 
' and be called a cuckold by all his neighbours 
into the bargain. The men will laugh at him, 
the ladies will pity him ; and all that his warmest 
friends can say in his favour will be, that the poor 
good soul has never had any harm in him.' — ' I 
want patience,' interrupted I; 'what! are there 
no private chastisements for his wife ; no schools 
of penitence to show her her folly; no rods for 
such delinquents?' — 'Pshaw, man,' replied he, 
smiling, ' if every delinquent among us were to 
be treated in your manner, one half of the king- 
dom would flog the other.' 



20 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



I must confess, my dear Fum, that if I were an 
English husband, of all things I would take care 
not to be jealous, nor busily pry into those secrets 
my wife was pleased to keep from me. Should I 
detect her infidelity, what is the consequence? 
If I calmly pocket the abuse, I am laughed at by 
her and her gallant; if I talk my griefs aloud, 
like a tragedy hero, I am laughed at by the whole 
world. The course then I would take would be, 
whenever I went out to tell my wife where I was 
going, lest I should unexpectedly meet her abroad 
in company with some dear deceiver. Whenever 
I returned, I would use a peculiar rap at the door, 
and give four loud hems as I walked deliberately up 
the stair-case. I would never inquisitively peep 
under her bed, or look behind the curtains. And 
even though I knew the captaijj was there, I 
would calmly take a dish of my wife's cool tea, 
and talk of the army with reverence. 

Of all nations, the Russians seem to me to 
behave most wisely in such circumstances. The 
wife promises her husband never to let him see 
her transgressions of this nature ; and he as punc- 
tually promises, whenever she is so detected, 
without the least anger, to beat her without 
mercy; so they both know what each has to ex- 
pect; the lady transgresses, is beaten, taken 
again into favour, and all goes on as before. 

When a Russian young lady, therefore, is to be 
married, her father, with a cudgel in his hand, 
asks the bridegroom whether he chooses this 
virgin for his bride? to which the other replies in 
the affirmative. Upon this, the father turning 
three times round, and giving her three strokes 
with his cudgel on the back — 'My dear,' cries he, 
' these are the last blows you are ever to receive 
from your tender father; I resign my authority, 
and my cudgel, to your husband ; he knows better 
than me the use of either.' The bridegroom knows 
decorums too well to accept of the cudgel ab- 
ruptly; he assures the father that the lady will 
never want it, and that he would not, for the 
world, make any use of it ; but the father, who 
knows what the lady may want better than he, 
insists upon his acceptance; upon this there 
follows a scene of Russian politeness, while one 
refuses, and the other offers the cudgel. The 
whole, however, ends with the bridegroom's 
taking it : upon which the lady drops a curtsey 
in token of obedience, and the ceremony proceeds 
as usual. 

There is something excessively fair and open 
in this method of courtship; by this both sides 
are prepared for all the matrimonial adventures 
that are to follow. Marriage has been compared 
to a game of skill for life ; it is generous thus in 
both parties to declare they are sharpers in the 
beginning. In England, I am told, both sides 
use every art to conceal their defects from each 
other before marriage, and the rest of their lives 
maybe regarded as doing penance for their former 
dissimulation. Farewell. 



LETTER XX. 

From the same. ' 

'THETepublic of letters,' is a very common ex- 
pression among the Europeans; and yet when 
applied to the learned of Europe, is the most 
absurd that can be imagined, since nothing is 



more unlike a republic than the society which 
goes by that name. From this expression, one 
would be apt to imagine, that the learned were 
united into a single body, joining their interests, 
and concurring in the same design. From this 
one might be apt to compare them to our literary 
societies in China, where each acknowledges a 
just subordination, and all contribute to build the 
temple of science, without attempting, from 
ignorance or envy, to obstruct each other. 

But very different is the state of learning here; 
every member of this fancied republic is desirous 
of governing, and none willing to obey; each 
looks upon his fellow as a rival, not an assistant, 
in the same pursuit. They calumniate, they 
injure, they despise, they ridicule each other: if 
one man writes a book that pleases, others shall 
write books to show that he might have given 
still greater pleasure, or should not have pleased. 
If one happens to hit upon something new, there 
are numbers ready to assure the public that all 
this was no novelty to them or the learned ; that 
Cardanus, or Brunus, or some other author, too 
dull to be generally read, had anticipated the dis- 
covery. Thus, instead of uniting like the mem- 
bers of a commonwealth, they are divided into 
almost as many factions as there are men; ana 
their jarring constitution, instead of being styled 
a republic of letters, should be entitled an anarchy 
of literature. 

It is true, there are some of superior abilities, 
who reverence and esteem each other; but their 
mutual admiration is not sufficient to shield off 
the contempt of the crowd. The wise are but 
few, and they praise with a feeble voice; iae 
vulgar are many, and roar in reproaches. The trtuy 
great seldom unite in societies, have few meet 
ings, no cabals ; the dunces hunt in full cry, till 
they have run down a reputation, and then snarl 
and fight with each other about dividing the 
spoil. Here you may see the compilers, and the 
book-answerers of every month, Avhen they have 
cut up some respectable name, most frequently 
reproaching each other with stupidity and dulness ; 
resembling the wolves of the Russian forest, who 
prey upon venison, or horses' flesh, when they 
can get it; but, in cases of necessity, lying in wait 
to devour each other. While they have new 
oooks to cut up, they make a hearty meal ; but if 
this resource should unhappily fail, then it is that 
critics eat up critics, and compilers rob from com- 
pilations. 

Confucius observes, that it is the duty of the 
learned to unite society more closely, and to per- 
suade men to become citizens of the world ; but 
the authors I refer to, are not only for disuniting 
society, but kingdoms also ; if the English are at 
war with France, the dunces of France think it 
their duty to be at war with those of England. 
Thus Freron, one of their first-rate scribblers, 
thinks proper to characterize all the English 
writers in the gross. ' Their whole merit,' says 
he, ' consists in exaggeration, and often in extra- 
vagance: correct their pieces as you please, there 
still remains a leaven which corrupts the whole 
They sometimes discover genius, but not the 
smallest share of taste: England is not a soil for 
the plants of genius to thrive in.' This is open 
enough, with not the least adulation in the 
picture. But hear what a Frenchman of ac- 
knowledged abilities, says upon the same subject ; 
• I am at a loss to determine in what we excel the 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORED. 



21 



English, or where they excel us : when I compare 
the merits of both in any one species of literary 
composition; so many reputable and pleasing 
writers present themselves from either country, 
that my judgment rests in suspense : I am pleased 
with the disquisition, without finding the object 
of my inquiry.' But lest you should think the 
French alone are faulty in this respect, hear how 
an English journalist delivers his sentiments of 
them. 'We are amazed,' says he, 'to find so 
many works translated from the French, while 
we have such numbers neglected of our own. In 
our opinion, notwithstanding their fame through- 
out the rest of Europe, the French are the most 
contemptible reasoners (we had almost said 
writers) that can be imagined. However, never- 
theless, excepting,' &c. Another English writer, 
Shaftesbury, if I remember, on the contrary, says, 
that the French authors are pleasing and judicious, 
more clear, more methodical and entertaining, 
than those of his own country. 

From these opposite pictures, you perceive that 
the good authors of either country praise, and the 
bad revile each other; and yet, perhaps, you'll be 
surprised, that indifferent writers should thus be 
the most apt to censure, as they have the most to 
apprehend from recrimination ; you may, perhaps, 
imagine, that such as are possessed of fame them- 
selves, should be most ready to declare their 
opinions, since what they say might pass for 
decision. But the truth happens to be, that the 
great are solicitous only of raising their own re- 
putations, which the opposite class, alas ! are 
solicitous of bringing every reputation down to a 
level with their own. 

But let us acquit them of malice and envy; a 
eritic is often guided by the same motives that 
direct his author. The author endeavours to per- 
suade us, that he has written a good book ; the 
critic is equally solicitous to show that he could 
write a better, had he thought proper. A critic is 
a being possessed of all the vanity but not the 
genius of a scholar; incapable, from his native 
weakness, of lifting himself from the ground, he 
applies to contiguous merit for support, makes 
the sportive sallies of another's imagination his 
serious employment, pretends to take our feelings 
under his care, teaches where to condemn, where 
to lay the emphasis of praise, and may, with as 
much justice, be called a man of taste, as the 
Chinese who measures his wisdom by the length 
of his nails. 

If then a book, spirited or humorous, happens 
to appear in the republic of letters, several critics 
are in waiting to bid the public not to laugh at a 
single line of it, for themselves had read it; and 
they know what is most proper to excite laughter. 
Other critics contradict the fuiminations of this 
tribunal; call them all spiders, and assure the 
public, that they ought to laugh without restraint. 
Another set are in the meantime quietly em- 
ployed in writing notes to the book, intended to 
show the particular passages to be laughed at, 
when these are out, others still there are who 
write notes upon notes. Thus a single new book 
employs not only the paper-makers, the printers, 
the pressmen, the bookbinders, the hawkers, but 
twenty critics, and as many compilers. In short, 
the body of the learned may be compared to a Per- 
sian army, where there are many pioneers, several 
sutlers, numberless servants, women and childrea 
in abundance, and but few soldiers. Adieu. 



LETTER XXI. 



To the same* 



The English are as fond of seeing' plays acted as 
the Chinese; but there is a vast difference in the 
manner of conducting them. We play our pieces 
in the open air, the English theirs under cover ; 
we act by day-light, and they by the blaze of 
torches. One of our plays continues eight or ten 
days successively ; an English piece seldom takes 
up above four hours in the representation. 

My companion in black, with whom I am now 
beginning to contract an intimacy, introduced me 
a few nights ago to the play-house, where we 
placed ourselves conveniently at the foot of the 
stage. As the curtain was not drawn before my 
arrival, I had an opportunity of observing the be- 
haviour of the spectators, and indulging those re- 
flections which novelty generally inspires. 

The rich in general were placed in the lowest 
seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees 
proportioned to their poverty. The order of pre- 
cedence seemed here inverted; those who were 
undermost all the day, now enjoyed a temporary 
eminence, and became masters of the ceremonies. 
It was they who called for the music, indulging 
every noisy freedom, and testifying all the in- 
solence of beggary in exaltation. 

They who held the middle region, seemed not 
so riotous as those above them, nor yet so tame as 
those below: to judge by their looks, many of 
them seemed strangers there as well as myself. 
They were chiefly employed during this period of 
expectation, in eating oranges, reading the story 
of the play, or making assignations. 

Those who sat in the lowest rows, which are 
called the pit, seemed to consider themselves as 
judges of the merit of the poet and the performers ; 
they were assembled partly to be amused, and 
partly to show their taste; appearing to labour 
under that restraint which an affectation of su- 
perior discernment generally produces. My com- 
panion, however, informed me, that not one in a 
hundred of them knew even the first principles of 
criticism: that they assumed the right of being 
censors, because there was none to contradict 
their pretensions ; and that every man who now- 
called himself a connoisseur, became such to all 
intents and purpose. 

Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the 
most happy situation of all. The rest of the 
audience came merely for their own amusement ; 
these rather to furnish out a part of the entertain- 
ment themselves. I could not avoid considering 
them as acting parts in dumb-show ; not a curtsey 
or a nod that was not the result of art; not a look 
nor a smile that was not designed for murder. 
Gentlemen and ladies ogled each others through 
spectacles ; for my companion observed that blind- 
ness was of late become fashionable ; all affected 
indifference and ease, while their hearts at the 
same time burned for conquest. Upon the whole, 
the lights, the music, the ladies in their gayest 
dresses, the men with cheerfulness and expecta- 
tion in their looks, all conspired to make a most 
agreeable picture, and to fill a heart that sympa- 
thizes at human happiness, with inexpressible 
serenity. 
The expected time for the play to begin at last 



22 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



arrived; the curtain was drawn, and the actors 
came on. A woman, who personated a queen, 
came in curtseying to the audience, who clapped 
their hands upon her appearance. Clapping of 
hands is, it seems, the manner of applauding in 
England; the manner is absurd; hut every 
country, you know, has its peculiar absurdities. 
I was equally surprised, however, at the submis- 
sion of the actress, who should have considered 
herself as a queen, as at the little discernment of 
the audience who gave her such marks of applause 
before she attempted to deserve them. Prelimi- 
naries between her and the audience being thus 
adjusted, the dialogue was supported between her 
and a most hopeful youth, who acted the part of 
her confidant. They both appeared in extreme 
distress ; for it seems the queen had lost a child 
some fifteen years before, and still kept its dear 
resemblance next her heart, while her kind com- 
panion bore a part in her sorrows. 

Her lamentations grew loud. Comfort is offered, 
but she detests the very sound. She bids them 
preach comfort to the winds. Upon this her 
husband comes in, who seeing the queen so 
much afflicted, can himself hardly refrain from 
tears, or avoid partaking in the soft distress. 
After thus grieving through tbree scenes, the 
curtain dropped for the first act. 

' Truly,' said 1 to my companion, ' these kings 
and queens are very much disturbed at no very 
great misfortune: certain I am, were people of 
humbler stations to act in this manner, they 
would be thought divested of common sense.' 
I had scarce finished this observation, when the 
curtain rose, and the king came on in a violent 
passion. His wife had, it seems, refused his 
proffered tenderness, had spurned Ms royal em- 
brace; and he seemed resolved not to survive her 
fierce disdain. After he had thus fretted, and the 
queen had fretted through the second act, the 
curtain was let down once more. 

'Now,' says my companion, 'you perceive the 
king to be a man of spirit, he feels at every pore ; 
one of your phlegmatic sons of clay would have 
given the queen her own way, and let her come to 
herself by degrees ; but the king is for immediate 
tenderness or instant death ; death and tenderness 
are leading passions of every modern buskined 
hero ; this moment they embrace, and the next 
stab, mixing daggers and kisses in every period.' 
I was going to second his remarks, when my 
attention was engrossed by a new object; a man 
came in balancing a straw upon his nose, and the 
audience were dappling their hands in all the 
raptures of applause. ' To Avhat purpose,' cried 1, 
'does this unmeaning figure make his appear- 
ance ; is he a part of the plot V — ' Unmeaning do 
you call him,' replied my friend in black; 'this 
is one of the most important characters of the 
whole play; nothing pleases the people more than 
seeing a straw balanced ; there is a great deal of 
meaning in the straw; there is something suited 
to every apprehension in the sight; and a fellow 
possessed of talents like these, is sure of making 
his fortune.' 

• The third act now began with an actor who 
came to inform us that he was the villain of the 
play, and intended to show strange things before 
all was over. He was joined by another, who 
seemed as much disposed for michief as he ; their 
intrigues continued through this whole division. 
« If that be a villain,' said I, ' he must be a very 



stupid one, to tell his secrets without being asked; 
such soliloquies of late are never admitted in 
China.' 

The noise of clapping interrupted me once more ; 
a child of six years old was learning to dance on the 
stage, which gave the ladies and mandarines in- 
finite satisfaction. ' I am sorry,' said I, ' to see the 
pretty creature so early learning so bad a trade ; 
dancing being, I presume, as contemptible here 
as in China.' — ' Quite the reverse,' interrupted my 
companion ; ' dancing is a very reputable and gen- 
teel employment here ; men have a greater chance 
for encouragement from the merit of their heels 
than their heads. One who jumps up, and flou- 
rishes his toes three times before he comes to the 
ground, may have three hundred a year ; he who 
flourishes them four times, gets four hundred; 
but he who arrives at five is inestimable, and may 
demand what salary he thinks proper. The fe- 
male dancers too are valued for the sort of jump- 
ing and crossing; it is a cant word among them, 
that she deserves most who shows highest. But 
the fourth act is begun, let us be attentive.' 

In the fourth act, the queen finds her long lost 
child, now grown up into a youth of smart parts 
and great qualifications; wherefore she wisely 
considers that the crown will fit his head better 
than that of her husband, whom she knows to be 
a driveller. The king discovers her design, and 
here comes on the deep distress; he loves the 
queen and he loves the kingdom; he resolves, 
therefore, in order to possess both, that her son 
must die. The queen exclaims at his barbarity ; 
is frantic with rage, and at length, overcome with 
sorrow, falls into a fit ; upon which the curtain 
drops, and the act is concluded. 

' Observe the art of the poet,' cries my compa- 
nion; ' when the queen can say no more, she falls 
into a fit. While thus her eyes are shut, while 
she is supported in the arms of Abigail, what 
horrors do we not fancy, we feel it in every nerve : 
take my word for it, that fits are the true aposio- 
pesis of modern tragedy.' 

The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was. 
Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs hallooing, 
carpets spreading, guards bustling from one door 
to another; gods, demons, daggers, racks, and 
ratsbane. But whether the king was killed, or 
the queen was drowned, or the son was poisoned, 
I have absolutely forgotten. 

When the play was over, I could not avoid ob- 
serving, that the persons of the drama appeared 
in as much distress in the first act as the last. 
• How is it possible,' said I, ' to sympathize with 
them through five long acts ; pity is but a short- 
lived passion ; I hate to hear an actor mouthing 
trifles ; neither startings, strainings, nor attitudes 
affect me unless there be cause : after I have been 
once or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, 
my heart sleeps in peace, probably unaffected by 
the principal distress. There should be one great 
passion aimed at by the actor as well as the poet ; 
all the rest should be subordinate, and only con- 
tribute to make that the greater: if the actor, 
therefore, exclaims upon every occasion in the 
tones of despair, he attempts to move us too 
soon ; he anticipates the blow, he ceases to affect, 
though he gains our applause.' 

I scarce perceived that the audience were almost 
all departed; wherefore, mixing with the crowd, 
my companion and I got into the street, where, 
essaying a hundred obstacles from coach-wheels 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



23 



and palanquin poles, like birds in their flight 
through the branches of a forest, after various 
turnings, Ave both at length got home safe. Adieu. 



LETTER XXII. 
To the same. 

The letter which came by the way of Smyrna, 
and which you sent me unopened, was from my 
son. As I have permitted you to take copies of 
all those I send to China, you might have made 
no ceremony in opening those directed to me. 
Either in joy, or sorrow, my friend should partici- 
pate in my feelings. ' It would give pleasure to 
see a good man pleased at my success ; it would 
give almost equal pleasure to see him sympathize 
at my disappointment.' 

Every account I receive from the east seems to 
come loaded with some new affliction. My wife 
and daughter were taken from me, and yet I sus- 
tained the loss with intrepidity; my son is made 
a slave among the barbarians, which was the only 
blow that could have reached my heart; yes, I 
will indulge the transports of nature for a little, 
in order to show I can overcome them in the end. 
' True magnanimity consists not in never falling, 
but rising every time we fall.' 

When our mighty emperor had published his 
displeasure at my departure, and seized upon all 
that was mine, my son was privately secreted from 
his resentment. Under the protection and guar- 
dianship of Fum Hoam, the best and wisest of alf 
the inhabitants of China, he *was for some time 
instructed in the learning of the missionsitbe, ana 
the wisdom of the East ; but hearing of my ad- 
ventures, and incited by filial piety, he was re- 
solved to follow my fortunes, and share my dis- 
tress. 

He passed the confines of China in disguise; 
hired himself as a camel-driver to a caravan that 
was crossing the deserts of Thibet, and was within 
one day's journey of the river Laur, which divides 
that country from India, when a body of wander- 
ing Tartars, falling unexpectedly upon the cara- 
van, plundered it, and made those who escaped 
their first fury slaves. By those he was led into 
the extensive and desolate regions that border on 
the shores of the Aral lake. 

Here he lived by hunting, and was obliged to 
supply every day a certain proportion of the spoil 
to regale his savage masters; his learning, his 
virtues, and even his beauty, were qualifications 
that no way served to recommend him; they 
knew no merit but that of providing large quan- 
tities of milk and raw flesh; and were sensible of 
no happiness but that of rioting on the undressed 
meal. 

Some merchants from Mesched, however, coming 
to trade with the Tartars for slaves, he was sold 
among the number, and led into the kingdom of 
Persia, where he is now detained. He is there 
obliged to watch the looks of a voluptuous and cruei 
master ; a man fond of pleasure, yet incapable of 
refinement, whom many years service in war has 
taught pride, but not bravery. 

That treasure which I still keep within my 
bosom, my child, my all that was left to me, is 
now a slave.* Good heavens! why was this? 

* This whole apostrophe seems most literally translated 
from Ambulaaohamed, the Arabian poet. 



why have I been introduced into this mortal 
apartment, to be a spectator of my own misfor- 
tunes, and the misfortunes of my fellow creatures?; 
wherever I turn, what a labyrinth of doubt, error, 
and disappointment appears ! why was I brought 
into being? for what purposes made ? from whence 
have I come? whither strayed? or to what region. 
am I hastening? Reason cannot resolve. It 
lends a ray to show the horrors of my prison, but 
not a light to guide me to escape them. Ye 
boasted revelations of the eaith, how little do yoii; 
aid the inquiry ! 

How am I surprised at the inconsistency of the- 
magi ; their two principles of good and evil affright 
me. The Indian, who bathes his visage in urine,, 
and calls it piety, strikes me with astonishment. 
The Christian, who believes in three gods, is highly 
absurd. The Jews, who pretend that Deity is 
pleased with the effusion of blood, are not less- 
displeasing. I am equally surprised, that rational 
beings can come from the extremities of the earthy 
in order to kiss a stone, or scatter pebbles. How 
contrary to reason are those ! and yet all pretends 
to teach me to be happy. 

Surely all men are blind and ignorant of truth. 
Mankind wanders, unknowing his way, from 
morning till the evening. Where shall we turn 
after happiness ; or is it wisest to desist from the 
pursuit? Like reptiles in a corner of some stu- 
pendous palace, we peep from our holes, look 
about us, wonder at all we see, but are ignorant 
of the great Architect's design. O for a revelation 
of himself, for a plan of his universal system! O 
for the reasons of our creation ; or why we wers 
created to be thus unhappy ! If we are to expe- 
rience no other felicity but what this life affords, 
then we are miserable indeed. If we are born 
only to look about us, repine, and die, then has 
Heaven been guilty of injustice. If this life ter- 
minates my existence, I despise the blessings of 
Providence, and the wisdom of the giver. If this- 
life be my all, let the following epitaph be written 
on the tomb of Altangi : ' By my father's crimes, 
I received this. By my own crimes, I bequeath it 
to posterity.' 



LETTER XXIII. 

To the same. 

Yet, while I sometimes lament the case of huma- 
nity, and the depravity of human nature, there 
now and then appear gleams of greatness, that 
serve to relieve the eye oppressed with the hideous 
prospect, and resemble those cultivated spots that 
are sometimes found in the midst of an Asiatic 
wilderness. I see many superior excellencies among 
the English, which it is not in the power of al? 
their follies to hide ; I see virtues, which in other 
countries are known only to a few, practised here 
by every rank of people. 

I know not whether it proceeds from their supe- 
rior opulence, that the English are more charitable 
than the rest of mankind ; whether, by being pos- 
sessed of all the conveniences of life themselves, 
they have more leisure to perceive the uneasy 
situation of the distressed ; whatever be the motive, 
they are not only the most charitable of any other 
nation, but most judicious in distinguishing the 
properest objects of compassion. 

In other countries, the giver is generally influx 



24 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



enced by the immediate impulse of pity ; his ge- 
nerosity is exerted, as much to relieve his own 
uneasy sensations, as to comfort the object in dis- 
tress. In England, benefactions are of a more ge- 
neral nature ; some men of fortune and universal 
benevolence propose the proper objects ; the wants 
and the merits of the petitioners are canvassed by 
the people ; neither passion nor pity find a place 
in the cool discussion ; and charity is then only 
exerted when it has received the approbation of 
reason. 

A late instance of this finely directed benevo- 
lence, forces itself so strongly on my imagination, 
that it in a manner reconciles me to pleasure, and 
once more makes me the universal friend of man. 

The English and French have not only political 
reasons to induce them to mutual hatred, but 
often the more prevailing motive of private inte- 
rest to widen the breach ; a war between other 
countries is carried on collectively, army fights 
against army, and a man's own private resent- 
ment is lost in that of the community ; but in 
England and France, tbe individuals of each coun- 
try plunder each other at sea without redress, and 
consequently feel that animosity against each 
other which passengers do to a robber. They 
have for some time carried on an expensive war; 
and several captives have been taken on both 
sides. Those made prisoners by the French have 
been used with cruelty, and guarded with unne- 
cessary caution. Those taken by the English, 
being much more numerous, were confined in the 
ordinary manner ; and, not being released by 
their countrymen, began to feel all those incon- 
veniences which arise from want of covering and 
long confinement. 

Their countrymen were informed of their de- 
plorable situation ; but they, more intent on an- 
noying their enemies than relieving their friends, 
refused the least assistance. The English now 
saw thousands of their fellow creatures starving 
in every prison, forsaken by those whose duty it 
was to protect them, labouring with disease, and 
without clothes to keep off the severity of the sea- 
son. National benevolence prevailed over nati- 
onal animosity: their prisoners were indeed ene- 
mies, but they were enemies in distress ; they 
ceased to be hateful, when they no longer con- 
tinued to be formidable : forgetting, therefore, 
their national hatred, the men who were brave 
enough to conquer, were generous enough to for- 
give, and they, whom all the world seemed to 
have disclaimed, at last found pity and redress 
from those they attempted to subdue. A sub- 
scription was opened, ample charities collected, 
proper necessaries procured, and the poor gay sons 
of a merry nation were once more taught to re- 
sume their former gaiety. 

When I cast my eye over the list of those who 
contributed on this occasion, 1 find the names al- 
most entirely English, scarce one foreigner ap- 
pears among the number. It was for Englishmen 
alone to be capable of such exalted virtue. I own 
I cannot look over this catalogue of good men and 
philosophers, without thinking better of myself, 
because it makes me entertain a more favourable 
opinion of mankind. I am particularly struck 
with one who writes these words upon the papei 
that enclosed his benefaction. ' The mite of an 
Englishman, a citizen of the world, to French- 
men, prisoners of war, and naked.' I only wish 
that he may find as much pleasure from his vir- 



tues, as I have done in reflecting upon them, 
that alone will amply reward him. Such a one, 
my friend, is an honour to human nature; he 
makes no private distinctions of party ; all that 
are stamped with the divine image of their Cre- 
ator, are friends to him: he is a 'native of the 
world ;' and the Emperor of China may be proud 
that he has such a countryman. 

To rejoice at the destruction of our enemies, is 
a foible grafted upon human nature, and we must 
be permitted to indulge it; the true way of atoning 
for such an ill-founded pleasure, is thus to turn 
our triumph into an act of benevolence, and to 
testify our own joy, by endeavouring to banish 
anxiety from others. 

Hamti, the best and wisest emperor that ever 
filled the throne, after having gained three signal 
victories over the Tartars, who had invaded his 
dominions, returned to Nankin in order to enjoy 
the glory of his conquest. After he had rested 
for some days, the people, who are naturally fond 
of processions, impatiently expected the trium- 
phal entry which emperors upon such occasions 
were accustomed to make. Their murmurs came 
to the emperor's ear. He loved his people, and 
was willing to do all in his power to satisfy their 
just desires. He therefore assured them, that he 
intended, upon the next feas^ of the Lanthorns, 
to exhibit one of the most glorious triumphs that 
had ever been seen in China. 

The people were in raptures at his condescen- 
sion; and, on the appointed day, assembled at the 
gates of the palace with the most eager expecta- 
tions. Here they waited for some time without 
seeing any of those preparations which usually 
precede a pageant. The lanthorn, with ten thou- 
sand tapers, was not yet brought forth : the fire- 
works, which usually covered the city walls, were 
not yet lighted : the people once more began to 
murmur at this delay; when, in the midst of 
their impatience, the palace gates flew open, and 
the emperor himself appeared, not in splendour 
or magnificence, but in an ordinary habit, fol- 
lowed by the blind, the maimed, and the strang- 
ers of the city, all in new clothes, and each car- 
rying in his hand money enough to supply his 
necessities for the year. The people were at first 
amazed, but soon perceived the wisdom of their 
king, who taught them that to make one man 
happy, was more truly great than having ten 
thousand captives groaning at the wheels of his 
chariot. Adieu. 



LETTER XXIV. 

To the same. 

Whatever may be the merits of the English in 
other sciences, they -seem peculiarly excellent in 
the art of healing. There is scarcely a disorder 
incident to humanity against which they are not 
possessed with a most infallible antidote. The 
professors of other arts confess the inevitable in- 
tricacy of things ; talk with doubt, and decide 
with hesitation: but doubting is entirely un- 
known in medicine; the advertising professors 
here delight in cases of difficulty ; be the disorder 
ever so desperate or radical, you will find num- 
bers in every street, who, by levelling a pill at the 
part affected, promise a certain cure without loss 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WOULD. 



25 



of time, knowledge of a bed- fellow, or hinderance 
of business. 

When I consider the assiduity of this profes- 
sion, their benevolence amazes me. They not 
only in general give their medicines for half value, 
hut use the most persuasive remonstrances to in- 
duce the sick to come and be cured. Sure there 
must be something strangely obstinate in an 
English patient, who refuses so much health 
upon such easy terms : does he take a pride in 
being bloated with a dropsy; does he find plea- 
sure in the alternations of an intermittent fever? 
or feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his 
gout, as he found pleasure in acquiring it ? He 
must; or otherwise he would never reject such 
repeated assurances of instant relief. What can 
be more convincing than the manner in which the 
sick are invited to be well 1 The doctor first begs 
the most earnest attention of the public to what 
he is going to propose ; he solemnly affirms that 
the pill was never found to want success ; he 
produces a list of those who have been rescued 
from the grave by taking it. Yet, notwithstand- 
ing all this, there are many here, who now and 
then think proper to be sick ; only sick, did I say ? 
There are some who think proper even to die ! 
Yes, by the head of Confucius, they die ; though 
they might have purchased the health-restoring 
specific for half-a-crown at every corner. 

I am amazed, my dear Fum Hoam, that these 
doctors, who know what an obstinate set of people 
they have to deal with, have never thought of 
attempting to revive the dead. When the living 
ire found to reject their prescriptions, they ought 
in conscience to apply to the dead, from whom 
they can expect no such mortifying repulses ; 
they would find in the dead the most complying 
patients imaginable ; and what gratitude might 
ihey not expect from the patient's son, now no 
longer an heir, and his wife, now no longer a 
widow. 

Think not, my friend, that there is any thing 
chimerical in such an attempt ; they already per- 
form cures equally strange : what can be more 
truly astonishing, than to see old age restored to 
youth, and vigour to the most feeble constitu- 
tions ; yet this is performed here every day ; a 
simple electuary effects these wonders, even with- 
out the bungling ceremonies of having the patient 
boiled up in a kettle, or ground down in a mill. 

Few physicians here go through the ordinary 
courses of education, but receive all their know- 
ledge of medicine by immediate inspiration from 
heaven. Some are thus inspired even in the 
womb ; and what is very remarkable, understand 
their profession as well at three years old, as at 
threescore. Others have spent a great part of 
their lives unconscious of any latent excellence, 
until a bankruptcy, or a residence in gaol, has 
called their miraculous powers into exertion. 
And others still there are, indebted to their su- 
perlative ignorance alone for success. The more 
ignorant the practitioner, the less capable is he 
thought of deceiving. The people here judge, as 
they do in the east ; where it is thought absolutely 
requisite that a man should be an idiot before he 
pretend to be either a conjuror or a doctor. 

When a physician by inspiration is sent for, he 
never perplexes the patient by previous exami- 
nation ; he asks very few questions, and those only 
for form's sake. He knows every disorder by in- 
tuition. He administers the Dill or drop for every 



distemper; nor is he more inquisitive than the 
farrier when he drenches a horse. If the patient 
lives, then has he one more to add to his sur- 
viving list ; if he dies, then it may be justly said 
of the patient's disorder, ' That as it was not 
cured, the disorder was incurable. 



LETTER XXV. 
From the same. 
I was some days ago in company with a politi- 
cian, who very pathetically declaimed upon the 
miserable situation of his country : he assured me, 
that the whole political machine was moving in a 
wrong track, and that scarce even abilities like 
his own could ever set it right again. ' What 
have we,' said he, ' to do with the wars on the 
continent ? we are a commercial nation ; we have 
only to cultivate commerce like our neighbours 
the Dutch ; it is our business to increase trade by 
settling new colonies ; riches are the strength of 
a nation ; and for the rest, our ships, our ships 
alone, will protect us.' I found it vain to oppose 
my feeble arguments to those of a man who 
thought himself wise enough to direct even the 
ministry ; I fancied, however, that I saw with 
more certainty, because I reasoned without pre- 
judice. I therefore begged leave, instead of ar- 
gument, to relate a short history. He gave me a 
smile at once of condescension and contempt ; 
and I proceeded as follows to describe, 

THE RISE AND DECLENSION OP THE KING- 
DOM OE IAO. 

Northward of China, and in one of the doul" 
lings of the great wall, the fruitful province of 
Lao enjoyed its liberty and a peculiar government 
of its own. As the inhabitants were on all sides 
surrounded by the wall, they feared no sudden in- 
vasion from the Tartars ; and being each pos- 
sessed of property, they were zealous in its de- 
fence. 

The natural consequences of security and afflu- 
ence in any country, is a love of pleasure ; when 
the wants of nature are supplied, we seek after 
the conveniencies ; when possessed of these, we 
desire the luxuries of life ; and when every lux- 
ury is provided, it is then ambition takes up the 
man, and leaves him still something to wish for ; 
the inhabitants of the country, from primitive 
simplicity, soon began to aim at elegance, and 
from elegance proceeded to refinement. It was 
now found absolutely requisite for the good of the 
state, that the people should be divided; formerly 
the same hand that was employed in tilling the 
ground, or in dressing up the manufactures, was 
also in time of need a soldier; but the custom was 
now changed : for it was perceived, that a man 
bred up from childhood to the arts either of peace 
or war, became more eminent by this means in 
his respective profession. The inhabitants were 
therefore now distinguished into artisans and sol- 
diers ; and while those improved the luxuries of 
life, these watched for the security of the people, 

A country possessed of freedom has always two 
sorts of enemies to fear ; foreign foes who attack 
its existence from without, and internal mis- 
creants who betray its liberties within. The in- 
habitants of Lao were to guard against both. A 
country of artisans were most likely to preserve 
internal liberty; and a nation of soldiers were 



26 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



fittest to repel a foreign invasion. Hence natu- 
rally arose a difference of opinion between the ar- 
tisans and soldiers of the kingdom. The artisans, 
ever complaining that freedom was threatened by 
an armed internal force, were for disbanding the 
soldiers, and insisted that their walls, their walls 
alone, were sufficient to repel the most formid- 
able invasion : the warriors, on the contrary, re- 
presented the power of the neighbouring kings, 
the combinations formed against their state, and 
the weakness of the wall, which every earthquake 
might overturn. While this altercation conti- 
nued, the kingdom might be justly said to enjoy 
its greatest share of vigour : every order in the 
state, by being watchful over each other, contri- 
buted to diffuse happiness equally, and balanced 
the state. PThe arts of peace flourished, nor were 
those of war neglected ; the neighbouring powers, 
who had nothing to apprehend from the ambitwn 
of men, whom they only saw solicitous, not ton 
riches, but freedom, were contented to traffic with 
them : they sent their goods to be manufactured 
in Lao, and paid a large price for them upon their 
return. 

By these, means this people at length became 
moderately rich, and their opulence naturally in- 
vited the invader : a Tartar prince led an im- 
mense army against them, and they as bravely 
stood up in their own defence ; they were still in- 
spired with a love of their country ; they fought 
the barbarous enemy with fortitude, and gained a 
complete victory. 

From this moment, which they regarded as the 
completion of their glory, historians date their 
downfall. They had risen in strength by a love 
of their country, and fell by indulging their am- 
bition. The country possessed by the invading 
Tartars, seemed to them a prize that would not 
only render them more formidable for the future, 
but which would increase their opulence for the 
present: it was unanimously resolved, therefore, 
both by soldiers and artisans, that those desolate 
regions should be peopled by colonies from Lao. 
When a trading nation begins to act the con- 
queror, it is then perfectly undone ; it subsists in 
some measure by the support of its neighbours ; 
while they continue to regard it without envy or 
apprehension, trade may flourish ; but when once 
it presumes to assert as its right what it only 
enjoyed as a favour, each country reclaims that 
part of commerce which it has power to take 
back, and turns it into some other channel more 
honourable, though perhaps less convenient. 

Every neighbour now began to regard with 
jealous eyes this ambitious commonwealth, and 
forbade their subjects any future intercourse with 
them. The inhabitants of Lao, however, still 
pursued the same ambitious maxims ; it was from 
their colonies alone they expected riches ; ' and 
riches,' said they, • are strength, and strength is 
security.' Numberless were the emigrations of 
the desperate and enterprising of this country to 
people the desolate dominions lately possessed by 
the Tartar ; between these colonies and the mother- 
country, a very advantageous traffic was at first 
carried on ; the republic sent their colonies large 
quantities of the manufactures of the country ; and 
they in return provided the republic with an equiva- 
lent in ivory and ginseng. By this means the inha- 
bitants became immensely rich ; and this produced 
an equal degree of voluptuousness ; for men who 
have much money will always find some fantas- 



tical modes of enjoyment. How shall I mark the 
steps by which they declined! Every colony, in 
process of time, spreads over the whole country 
where it first was planted. As it grows more 
populous, it becomes more polite; and those ma- 
nufactures, for which it was in the beginning 
obliged to others, it learns to dress up itself: such 
was the case with the colonies of Lao ; they, in 
less than a century, became a powerful and a polite 
people; and the more polite they grew, the less 
advantageous was the commerce which still sub- 
sisted between them and others. By this means 
the mother-country being abridged in its com- 
merce, grew poorer, but not less luxurious. Their 
former wealth had introduced luxury ; and wher- 
ever luxury once fixes, no art can either lessen or 
remove it. Their commerce with their neighbours 
was totally destroyed; and that with their colo- 
nies, was every day naturally and necessarily 
declining ; they still, however, preserved the inso- 
lence of wealth, without a power to support it; 
and persevered in being luxurious, while con- 
temptible from poverty. In short, the state re- 
sembled one of those bodies bloated with disease, 
whose bulk is only a symptom of its wretchedness. 
Their former opulence only rendered them more 
impotent; as those individuals who are reduced 
from riches to poverty are of all men the most un- 
fortunate and helpless. They had imagined, be- 
cause their colonies tended to make them rich 
upon the first acquisition, they would still con- 
tinue to do so ; they now found, however, that on 
themselves alone they should have depended for 
support ; that colonies ever afforded but temporary 
affluence, and when cultivated and polite, are no 
longer useful. From such a concurrence of cir- 
cumstances they soon became contemptible. The 
emperor Honti invaded them with a powerful army. 
Historians do not say whether their colonies were 
too remote to render assistance, or else were de- 
sirous of shaking off their dependence; but certain 
it is, they scarce made any resistance ; their walls 
were now found but a weak defence; and they at 
length were obliged to acknowledge subjection to 
the empire of China. 

Happy, very happy might they have been, had 
they known when to bound their riches and their 
glory. Had they known that extending empire is 
often diminishing power; that countries are ever 
strongest which are internally powerful ; that co- 
lonies, by draining away the brave and enterprising, 
leave the country in the hands of the timid and 
the avaricious; that walls give little protection, 
unless manned with resolution ; that too much 
commerce may injure a nation as well as too little ; 
and that there is a wide difference between a con- 
quering and a flourishing empire. Adieu. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WOULD. 



27 




Here, master," lajs lie, "take all my cargo, and a blessing into 
the bargain." 



LETTER XXVI. 



From the same. 



Though fond of maDy acquaintances, I desire an 
intimacy, only with a few. The man in black, 
whom I have often mentioned, is one whose 
friendship I could wish to acquire, because he 
possesses my esteem. His manners, it is true, 
are tinctured with some strange inconsistencies ; 
and he may be justly termed a humorist in a 
nation of humorists. Though he is generous 
even to profusion, he affects to be thought a pro- 
digy of parsimony and prudence ; though his 
conversation be replete with the most sordid and 
selfish maxims, his heart is dilated with the most 
unbounded love. I have known him profess 
himself a man-hater, while his cneek was glowing 
with compassion ; and while his looks were 
softened into pity, I have heard him use the lan- 
guage of unbounded ill nature. , Some affect hu- 
manity and tenderness; others boast of having 
such dispositions from nature ; but he is the only 
man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his 
natural benevolence. He takes as much pains to 
hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would to con- 
ceal his indifference; but on every unguarded 
moment the mask drops off, and reveals him to 
the most superficial observer. 

In one of our late excursions into the country, 
happening to discourse upon the provision that 
was made for the poor in England, he seemed 
amazed how any of his countrymen could be so 
foolishly weak as to relieve occasional objects of 
charity, when the laws had made such ample pro- 
vision for their support. 'In every parish-house,' 
said he, ' the poor are supplied with food, clothes, 
fire, and a bed to lie on ; they want no more, I 
desire no more myself; yet still they seem dis- 
contented. I am surprised at the inactivity of 
our magistrates, in not taking up such vagrants, 
who are only a weight upon the industrious ; I am 
surprised that the people are so fond to relieve 
them, when they must be at the same time sen- 
sible, that it in some measure encourages idle- 
ness, extravagance, and imposture. Were I to 
advise any man for whom I had the least regard, 
I would caution him by all means not to be im- 
posed upon by their false pretences ; let me assure 
you, sir, they are impostors, every one of them, 
and rather merit a prison than relief.' 

Re was proceeding in this strain, earnestly to 
dissuade me from an imprudence of which I am 



seldom guilty ; when an old man, who still had 
about him the remnants of tattered finery, im- 
plored our compassion. He assured us that he 
was no common beggar, but forced into the 
shameful profession to support a dying wife and 
five hungry children. Being prepossessed against 
such falsehoods, his story had not the least in- 
fluence upon me ; but it was quite otherwise with 
the man in black ; I could see it visibly operate 
upon his countenance, and effectually interrupt 
his harangue. I could easily perceive that his 
heart burned to relieve the five starving children ; 
but he seemed ashamed to discover his weakness 
to me. While he thus hesitated between com- 
passion and pride, I pretended to look another 
way, and he -seized this opportunity of giving the 
poor petitioner a piece of silver, bidding him, at 
the same time, in order that I should hear, go 
work for his bread, and not tease passengers with 
such impertinent falsehoods for the future. 

As he had fancied himself quite unperceived, 
he continued, as we proceeded, to rail against 
beggars with as much animosity as before; he 
threw in some episodes on his own amazing 
prudence and economy, with his profound skill in 
discovering impostors ; he explained the manner 
in which he would deal with beggars were he a 
magistrate; hinting at enlarging some of the 
prisons for their reception ; and told two stories 
of ladies that were robbed by beggar-men. He 
was beginning a third to the same purpose, when 
a sailor with a wooden leg once more crossed 
our walks, desiring our pity, and blessing our 
limbs. I was for going on without taking any 
notice; but my friend, looking wishfully upon 
the poor petitioner, bid me stop, and he wjold 
show me with how much ease he could any time . 
detect an impostor. 

He now, therefore, assumed a look of import- 
ance : and, in an angry tone, began to examine 
the sailor, demanding in what engagement he 
was thus disabled, and rendered unfit for service. 
The sailor replied, in a tone as angrily as he, that 
he had been an officer on board a private ship of 
war, and that he had lost his leg abroad in defence 
of those who did nothing at home. At this reply, 
all my friend's importance vanished in a moment ; 
he had not a single question more to ask ; he now 
only studied what method he should take to 
relieve him unobserved. He had, however, no 
easy part to act, as he was obliged to preserve the 
appearance of ill-nature before me, and yet re- 
lieve himself by relieving the sailor. Casting, 
therefore, a furious look upon some bundles of 
chips which the fellow carried in a string at his 
back, my friend demanded how he sold bis 
matches ; but not waiting for a reply, desired, in 
a surly tone, to have a shilling's worth. The 
sailor seemed at first surprised at his demand; 
but soon recollecting himslef, and presenting his 
whole bundle, ' Here, master,' says he, ' take all 
my cargo, and a blessing into the bargain.' 

It is impossible to describe with what an air of 
triumph my friend marched off with his new pur- 
chase; he assured me that he was firmly of 
opinion, that those fellows must have stolen their 
goods, who could »hus afford to sell them for half 
value : he informed me of several different uses to 
which those chips may be applied ; he expatiated 
largely upon the savings that would result from 
lighting candles with a match instead of thrusting 
them into the fire. He averred, that he would as 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



soon have parted with a tooth as his money to 
these vagabonds, unless for some valuable con- 
sideration. I cannot tell how long this panegyric 
upon frugality and matches might have con- 
tinued, had not his attention been called off by 
another object, more distressful than either of the 
former. A woman in rags, with one child in her 
arms, and another on her back, was attempting to 
sing ballads, but with such a mournful voice, that 
it was difficult to determine whether she was 
singing or crying. A wretch, who in the deepest 
distress still aimed at good humour, was an object 
my friend was by no means capable of withstand- 
ing; his vivacity and his discourse were instantly 
interrupted; upon this occasion his very dis- 
simulation had forsaken him. Even in my pre- 
sence, he immediately applied his hands to his 
pockets in order to relieve her; but guess his 
confusion, when he found he had already given 
away all the money he carried about him to 
former objects. The misery painted in the 
woman's visage was not half so strongly ex- 
pressed as the agony in his, He continued to 
search for some time, but to no purpose; till, at 
length, recollecting himself, with a face of in- 
effable good nature, as he had no money, he put 
into her hands his. shilling's worth of matches. 



LETTER XXVIL 

To the same. 

As there, appeared something reluctantly good in 
the character of my companion, I must own it 
surprised me, what could be his motives for thus 
concealing virtues, which others take such pains 
to display. I was unable to repress my desire of 
knowing the history of a man, who thus seemed 
to act under continual restraint, and whose bene- 
volence was rather the effect of appetite than 
reason. 

It was not, however, till after repeated solicita- 
tions he thought proper to gratify my curiosity.— 
* If you are fond,' says he, ' of hearing hair-breadth 
'scapes, my history must certainly please ; for I 
have been for twenty years upon the very verge 
of starving, without ever being starved. 

' My father, the younger son of a good family, 
was possessed of a small living in the church. 
His education was above his fortune, and his 
generosity greater than his education. Poor as 
he was, he had his flatterers still poorer than 
himself; for every dinner he gave them, they re- 
turned him an equivalent in praise ; and this was 
all he wanted. The same ambition that actuates 
a monarch at the head of an army, influenced my 
father at the head of his table ; he told the story 
of the ivy tree, and that was laughed at ; he re- 
peated the jest of the two scholars and one pair of 
breeches, and the company laughed at that ; but 
the story of Taffy in the sedan-chair, was sure to 
set the table in a roar. Thus his pleasure in- 
creased in proportion to the pleasure he gave; he 
loved all the world, and he fancied all the world 
loved him. 

' As his fortune was but small, he lived up to 
the very extent of it; he had no intentions of 
leaving his children money, for that was dross ; 
he was resolved they should have learning; for 
learning, he used to observe, was better than 
silver or gold. For this purpose he undertook to 



instruct us himself; and took as much pains to 
form our morals, as to improve our understand- 
ing. We were told, that universal benevolence 
was what first cemented society ; we were taught 
to consider all the wants of mankind as our own ; 
to regard the human face divine with affection 
and esteem ; he wound us up to be mere machines 
of pity, and rendered us incapable of withstanding 
the slightest impulse, made either by real or fic- 
titious distress; in a word, we were perfectly 
instructed in the art of giving away thousands 
before we were taught the more necessary quali- 
fications of getting a farthing. 

' I cannot avoid imagining, that, thus refined 
by his lessons, out of all my suspicion, and di- 
vested of even all the little cunning which nature 
had given me, I resembled, upon my first entrance 
into the busy and insidious world, one of those 
gladiators who were exposed without armour in 
the amphitheatre at Rome. My father, however, 
who had only seen the world on one side, seemed 
to triumph in my superior discernment, though 
my whole stock of wisdom consisted in being able 
to talk like himself upon subjects that once were 
useful, because they were then topics of the busy 
world; but that now were utterly useless, because 
connected with the busy world no longer. 

' The first opportunity he had of finding his ex- 
pectations disappointed, was at the very middling 
figure I made in the university : he had flattered 
himself, that he should soon see me rising into 
the foremost r^nk in literary reputation ; but was 
mortified to find me utterly unnoticed and un- 
known. His disappointment might have been 
partly ascribed to his having overrated my 
talents, and partly to my dislike of mathematical 
reasonings, at a time when my imagination and 
memory, yet unsatisfied, were more eager after 
new objects, than desirous of reasoning upon 
those I knew. This did not, however, please my 
tutors, who observed, indeed, that I was a little 
dull, but at the same time allowed, that I seemed 
to be very good-natured, and had no harm in me. 

' After I had resided at college seven years, my 
father- died, and left me-rhis blessing. Thus 
shoved from shore without ill-nature to protect or 
cunning to guide, or proper stores to subsist me 
in so dangerous a voyage, I was obliged to em- 
bark in the wide world at twenty-one. But in 
order to settle in life, my friends advised (for they 
always advise when they begin to despise us) they 
advised me, I say, to go into orders. 

' To be obliged to wear a long wig, when I liked 
a short one, or a black coat, when I generally 
dressed in brown, I thought was such a restraint 
upon my liberty, that I absolutely rejected the 
proposal. A priest in England is not the same 
mortified creature with a bonze in China; with 
us, not he that fasts best, but he that eats best, is 
reckoned the best liver; yet I rejected a life of 
luxury, indolence, and ease, from no other con- 
sideration, but that boyish one of dress. So that 
my friends were now perfectly satisfied I was 
undone, and yet they thought it a pity for one 
who had not the least harm in him, and was so 
very good-natured . 

'Poverty naturally begets dependence, and I 
was admitted as flatterer to a great man. At first 
L was. surprised, that the situation of a flatterer at 
a great man's table could be thought disagreeable; 
there was no great trouble in listening attentively 
when his lordship spoke, and laughing when he 



THE 



CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



29 



looked around for applause. This, even good 
manners might have obliged me to perform. I 
found, however, too soon, that his lordship was 
a greater dunce than myself; and from that very 
moment my power of flattery was at an end. I 
now rather aimed at setting him right, than at 
receiving his absurdities with submission : to 
flatter those we do not know is an easy task ; but 
to flatter our intimate acquaintances, all whose 
foibles are strongly in our eye, is drudgery insup- 
portable. Every time I now opened my lips in 
praise, my falsehood went to my conscience ; his 
lordship soon perceived me to be very unfit for 
service; I was therefore discharged; my patron 
at the same time being graciously pleased to 
observe, that he believed I was tolerably good- 
natured, and had not the least harm in me. 

'Disappointed in ambition, I had recourse to 
love. A young lady, who lived with her aunt, 
and was possessed of a very pretty fortune, in her 
own disposal, had given me, as I fancied, some 
reasons to expect success. The symptoms by 
which I was guided were striking ; she had always 
laughed with me at her awkward acquaintance, 
and at her aunt, among the number; she always 
observed, that a man of sense would make a 
better husband than a fool, and I as constantly 
applied the observation in my own favour. She 
continually talked, in my company, of friendship, 
and the beauties of the mind, and spoke of Mr. 
Shrimp my rival's high-heeled shoes with de- 
testation. These were circumstances which I 
thought strongly in my favour ; so, after resolvin? 
and re-resolving, I had courage enough to tell her 
my mind. Miss heard my proposal with serenity, 
seeming at the same time to study the figures of 
her fan. Out at last it came. There was but 
one small objection to complete our happiness; 
which was no more than — that she was marrited 
three months before to Mr. Shrimp, Avith high- 
heeled shoes ! By way of consolation, however, 
she observed, that though I was disappointed in 
her, my addresses to her aunt would probably 
kindle her into sensibility; as the old lady always 
allowed me to be very good-natured, and not to 
have the least share of harm in me. 

1 Yet still I had friends, numerous friends, and 
to them I was resolved to apply* O friendship ! 
thou fond soother of the human breast ! to thee 
we fly in every calamity; to thee the wretched 
seek for succour; on thee, the care-tired son of 
misery fondly relies; from thy kind assistance 
the unfortunate always hopes for relief, and may 
he ever sure of disappointment ! My first appli- 
cation was to a city scrivener, who had frequently 
offered to lend me money when he knew I did not 
want it. I informed him, that now was the time 
to put his friendship to the test ; that I wanted to 
borrow a couple of hundreds for a certain occa- 
sion, and was resolved to take it up from him. 
' And pray, sir,' cried my friend, ' do you want all 
this money?' — 'Indeed I never wanted it more,' 
returned I. — 'I am sorry for that,' cries the 
scrivener, 'with all my heart; for they who want 
money when they come to borrow, will always 
want money when they should come to pay.' 

'From him I flew with indignation to one of 
the best friends I had in the world, and made the 
same request. 'Indeed, Mr. Drybone,' cries my 
friend, 'I always thought it would come to this. 
You know, sir, I would not advise you but for 
your own good; but your conduct has hitherto 



been ridiculous in the highest degree, and some of 
your acquaintance always thought you a very 
silly fellow. Let me see, you want two hundred 
pounds; do you want only two hundred, sir, 
exactly?' — 'To confess a truth,' returned I, 'I 
shall want three hundred; but then I have 
another friend from whom I can borrow the rest.' 
— 'Why, then,' replied my friend, 'if you would 
take my advice, and you know I should not pre- 
sume to advise you but for your own good; I 
would recommend it to you, to borrow the whole 
sum from that other friend, and then one note 
will serve for all, you know.' 

' Poverty now began to come fast upon me ; yet, 
instead of growing more provident or cautious as 
I grew poor, I became every day more indolent 
and simple. A friend was arrested for fifty pounds ; 
I was unable to extricate him, except by becoming 
his bail. When at liberty, he fled from his credi- 
tors, and left me to take his place. In prison I 
expected greater satisfactions than I had enjoyed 
at large. I hoped to converse with men in this 
new world, simple and believing like myself; but 
I found them as cunning and cautious as those in 
the world I had left behind. They spunged up 
my money whilst it lasted, borrowed my coals and 
never paid them, and cheated me when I played 
at cribbage. All this was done, because they be- 
lieved me to be very good-natured, and knew that 
I had no harm in me. 

' Upon my first entrance into this mansion, 
which is to some the abode of despair, I felt no 
sensations different from those I experienced 
abroad. I was now on one side of the door, and 
those who were unconfined were on the other ; this 
was all the difference between us. At first, indeed, 
I felt some uneasiness, in considering how I should 
be able to provide this week for the wants of the 
week ensuing; but after some time, if I found 
myself sure of eating one day, I never troubled 
myself how I was to be supplied another. I seized 
every precarious meal with the utmost good hu- 
mour, indulged no rants of spleen at my situation, 
never called down heaven and all the stars to be- 
hold me dining upon a halfpenny-worth of radishes ; 
my very companions were taught to believe, that 
I liked salad better than mutton. I contented 
myself with thinking, that all my life I should 
either eat white bread or brown ; considered that 
all that happened was best, laughed when I was 
not in pain, took the world as it went, and read 
Tacitus often, for want of more books and com- 
pany. 

' How long I might have continued in this tor- 
pid state of simplicity I cannot tell, had I not 
been roused by seeing an old acquaintance, whom 
I knew to be a prudent blockhead, preferred to a 
place in the government. I now found that I had 
pursued a wrong tract, and that the true way of 
bei'ng able to relieve others, was first to aim at 
independence myself. My immediate care, there- 
fore, was to leave my present habitation, and 
make an entire reformation in my conduct and 
behaviour. For a free, open, undesigning deport- 
ment, I put on that of closeness, prudence, and 
economy. One of the most heroic actions I ever 
performed, and for which I shall praise myself as 
long as I live, was the refusing half-a-crown to an 
old acquaintance, at the time when he wanted it, 
and I had it to spare; for this alone, I deserved 
,o be decreed an ovation. 

1 1 now therefore pursued a course of uninter- 



30 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



rupted frugality, seldom wanted a dinner, and was 
consequently invited to twenty. I soon began to 
get the character of a saving hunks that had 
money; and insensibly grew into esteem. Neigh- 
bours have asked my advice in the disposal of 
their daughters, and I have always taken care not 
to give any. I have contracted a friendship with 
an alderman, only by observing, that if we take a 
farthing from a thousand pounds, it will be a 
thousand pounds no longer. I have been invited 
to a pawnbroker's table by pretending to hate 
gravy ; and am now actually upon treaty of mar- 
riage with a rich widow, for only having observed 
that bread was rising. If ever I am asked a ques- 
tion, whether I know it or not, instead of answer- 
ing, I only smile and look wise. If a charity is 
proposed, I go about with the hat, but put nothing 
in myself. If a wretch solicits my pity, I observe 
that the world is filled with impostors, and take a 
certain method of not being deceived, by never 
relieving. In short, I now find the truest way of 
finding esteem, even from the indigent, is to give 
away nothing, and thus have much in our power 
to give.' 

LETTER XXVIII. 

To the same. 

Lately, in company with my friend in black, 
whose conversation is now both my amusement 
and instruction, I could not avoid observing the 
great number of old bachelors and maiden ladies 
with which this city seems to be overrun. ' Sure,' 
said I, ' marriage is not sufficiently encouraged, or 
we should never behold such crowds of battered 
beaux and decayed coquettes, still attempting to 
drive a trade they have been so long unfit for, and 
swarming upon the gaiety of the age. 1 behold an 
old bachelor in the most contemptible light, as an 
animal that lives upon the common stock, without 
contributing his share ; he is a beast of prey, and 
the laws should make use of as many stratagems, 
and as much force, to drive the reluctant savage 
into the toils, as the Indians when they hunt the 
hyena or the rhinoceros. The mob should be per- 
mitted to hallo after him, boys might play tricks 
on him with impunit3 r , every well-bred company 
should laugh at him ; and if, when turned of sixty, 
he offered to make love, his mistress might spit in 
his face, or, what would be perhaps a greater 
punishment, should fairly grant him the favour. 

' As for old maids,' continued I, ' they should ' 
not be treated with so much severity, because I 
suppose no one would be so if she could help it. 
No lady in her senses would choose to make a sub- 
ordinate figure, at christenings and lyings-in, 
when she might be the principal herself; nor 
curry favour with a sister-in-law, when she might 
command a husband; nor toil in preparing cus- 
tards, when she might lie a-bed, and give direc- 
tions how they ought to be made : nor stifle all 
her sensations in demure formality, when she 
might, with matrimonial freedom, shake her ac- 
quaintance by the hand, and wink at a double 
entendre. No lady could be so very silly as to 
live single, if she could help it. I consider an 
unmarried lady, declining into the vale of years, 
as one of those charming countries bordering on 
China, that lie waste for want of proper inhabi- 
tants. We are not to accuse the country, hut the 
ignorance of its neighbours, who are insensible of 



its beauties, though at liberty to enter and culti- 
vate the soil.' 

' Indeed, sir,' replied my companion, 'you are 
very little acquainted with the English ladies, to 
think they are old maids against their will. I 
dare venture to affirm, that you can hardly select 
one of them all, but has had frequent offers of 
marriage, which either pride or avarice has made 
her reject. Instead of thinking it a disgrace, they 
take every occasion to boast of their former cruel- 
ty; a soldier does not exult more when he counts 
over the wounds he has received, than a female 
veteran when she relates the wounds she has for- 
merly given: exhaustless when she begins a nar- 
rative of the former death-dealing power of her 
eyes. She tells of the knight in gold lace, who 
died with a single frown, and never ros.e again till 
— he was married to his maid : of the squire, who, 
being cruelly denied, in a rage, flew to the win- 
dow, and lifting up the sash, threw himself in an 
agony — into his arm-chair: of the parson, who, 
crossed in love, resolutely swallowed opium, which 
banished the stings of despised love, by — making 
him sleep. In short, she talks over her former 
losses with pleasure, and, like some tradesmen, 
finds consolation in the many bankruptcies she 
has suffered. 

' For this reason, whenever I see a superannu- 
ated beauty still unmarried, I tacitly accuse her 
either of pride, avarice, coquetry or affectation. 
There is Miss Jenny Tinderbox, I once remember 
her to have had some beauty and a moderate for- 
tune. Her eldest sister happened to marry a man 
of quality, and this seemed as a statute of virginity 
against poor Jane. Because there was one lucky 
hit in the family, she was resolved not to disgrace 
it by introducing a tradesman;- by thus rejecting 
her equals, and being neglected or despised by her 
superiors, she now acts in the capacity of tutoress 
to her sister's children, and undergoes the drud- 
gery of three servants, without receiving the wages 
of one. 

'Miss Squeeze was a pawnbroker's daughter; 
her father had early taught her, that money was 
a very good thing, and left her a moderate fortune 
at his death. She was so perfectly sensible of the 
value of what she had got, that she was resolved 
never to part with a farthing without an equality 
on the part of her suitor ; she thus refused several 
offers made her by people who wanted to better 
themselves, as the saying is ; and grew old and 
ill-natured, without ever considering that she 
should have made an abatement in her preten- 
sions, from her face being pale and marked with 
the small-pox. 

'Lady Betty Tempest, on the contrary, had 
beauty, with fortune and family. But, fond of 
conquest, she passed from triumph to triumph; 
she has read plays and romances, and there had 
learned, that a plain man of common sense was no 
better than a fool ; such she refused, and sighed 
only for the gay, giddy, inconstant, and thought- 
less; after she had thus rejected hundreds who 
liked her, and sighed for hundreds who despised her, 
she found herself insensibly deserted: at present 
she is company only for her aunts and cousins, 
and sometimes makes one in a country dance, with 
one of the chairs for a partner, casts off round a 
joint-stool, and sets to a corner cupboard. In a 
word, she is treated with civil contempt from 
every quarter, and placed, like a piece of old- 
fashioned lumber, merely to fill up a corner. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



31 



' But Sophronia, the sagacious Sophronia J how 
shall I mention her ? She was taught to love Greek 
and hate the men, from her very infancy: she has 
rejected fine gentlemen, because they were not 
pedants; and pedants, because they were not fine 
gentlemen: her exquisite sensibility has taught 
her to discover every fault in every lover, .and 
her inflexible justice has prevented her pardoning 
them. Thus she rejected several offers, till the 
wrinkles of age had overtaken her; and now, 
without one good feature in her face, she talks 
incessantly of the beauties of the mind.' Farewell. 



LETTER XXIX. 

From the same. 

Were we to estimate the learning of the English 
by the number of books that are every day pub- 
lished among them, perhaps no country, not even 
China itself, couM equal them in this particular. 
I have reckoned not less than twenty-three new 
books published in one day; which, upon compu- 
tation, makes eight thousand three hundred and 
ninety-five in one year. Most of these are not 
confined to one single science, hut embrace the 
whole circle. History, politics, poetry, mathe- 
matics, metaphysics, and the philosophy of nature, 
are all comprised in a manual not larger than that 
in which our children are taught their letters. 
If then we suppose the learned of England to read 
but an eighth part of the works which daily come 
from the press, (and sure none can pretend to 
learning upon less easy terms,) at this rate, every 
scholar will read a thousand books in one year. 
From such a calculation, you may conjecture what 
an amazing fund of literature a man must be pos- 
sessed of, who thus reads three new books every 
day, not one of which but contains all the good 
things that ever were said or written. 

And yet, I know not how it happens, but the 
English are not in reality so learned as would 
seem from this calculation. "We meet but few 
who know all arts and sciences in perfection; 
whether it is that the generality are incapable of 
such extensive knowledge, or that the authors of 
those books are not adequate instructors. In 
China, the emperor himself takes cognizance of all 
the doctors in the kingdom who profess author- 
ship. In England, every man may be an author 
that can write; for they have bylaw a liberty, not 
only of saying what they please," but of being also 
as dull as they please. 

Yesterday I testified my surprise to the man in 
black, where writers could be found in sufficient 
number to throw off the books I daily saw crowd- 
ing from the press. I at first imagined that their 
learned seminaries might take this method of in- 
structing the world ; but to obviate this objection, 
my companion assured me, that the doctors of 
colleges never wrote, and that some of them had 
actually forgot their reading, « but if you desire,' 
continued he, « to see a collection of authors, I 
fancy I can introduce you this evening to a club, 
which assembles every Saturday at seven, at the 
sign of the Broom, near Islington, to talk over the 
business of the last, and the entertainment of the 
week ensuing.' I accepted his invitation; we 
walked together, and entered the house some 
time before the usual hour for the company as- 
sembling. 



My friend took this opportunity of letting me 
into the characters of the principal members of 
the club, not even the host excepted, who, it 
seems, was once an author himself, but was pre- 
ferred by a bookseller to this situation as a reward 
for his former services. 

' The first person,' said he, ' of our society, is 
Dr. Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people 
think him a profound scholar, but as he seldom, 
speaks, I cannot be positive in that particular ; he 
generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his 
pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned 
very good company. I am told he writes indexes 
to perfection, he makes essays on the origin of 
evil, philosophical inquiries upon any subject, and 
draws up an answer to any book upon twenty 
four hours' warning. You may distinguish him 
from the rest of the company by his long grey 
wig, and the blue handkerchief round his neck. 

' The next to him in merit and esteem is Tim 
Syllabub, a droll creature ; he sometimes shines 
as a star of the first magnitude among the choice 
spirits of the age : he is reckoned equally excel- 
lent at a rebus, a riddle, a bawdy song, and a 
hymn for the tabernacle. You will know him by 
his shabby finery, his powdered wig, dirty shirt, 
and broken silk stockings. 

1 After him succeeds Mr. Tibs, a very useful 
hand ; he writes receipts for the bite of a mad dog, 
and throws off" an eastern tale to perfection ; he 
understands the business of an author as well as 
any man; for no bookseller alive can cheat him. 
You may distinguish him by the peculiar clumsi- 
ness of his figure, and the coarseness of his coat ; 
however, though it be coarse (as he frequently 
tells the company), he has paid for it. 

Lawyer Squint is the politician of the society, 
ne makes speeches for parliament, writes ad- 
dresses to his fellow-subjects, and letters to noble 
commanders ; he gives the history of every new 
play, and finds seasonable thoughts upon every 
occasion.' My companion was proceeding in his 
description, when the host came running in, with 
terror on his countenance, to tell us, that the 
door was beset with bailiffs. ' If that be the case, 
then,' says my companion, ' we had as good be 
going ; for I am positive we shall not see one of 
the company this night.' Wherefore, disappoint- 
ed, we were both obliged to return home ; he to 
enjoy the oddities which compose his character 
alone, and I to write, as usual, to my friend, the 
occurrences of the day. Adieu. 



LETTER XXX. 

From the same. 

By my last advices from Moscow, I find the cara- 
van has not yet departed for China. I still con- 
tinue to write, expecting that you may receive a 
large number of my letters at once. In them you 
will find rather a minute detail of English pecu- 
liarities, than a general picture of their manners 
or disposition. Happy it were for mankind, if all 
travellers would thus, instead of characterising a 
people in general terms, lead us into a detail of 
those minute circumstances which first influenced 
their opinion ; the genius of a country should be 
investigated, with a kind of experimental inquiry ; 
by this means we should have more precise and 



32 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



just notions of foreign nations, and detect travel- 
lers themselves when they happened to form 
•wrong conclusions. 

■ My friend and I repeated our visit to the club 
of authors ; where, upon our entrance, we found 
the members all assembled, and engaged in a 
loud debate. 

The poet, in shabby finery, holding a manu- 
script in his hand, was earnestly endeavouring to 
persuade the company to hear him read the first 
book of an heroic poem, which he had composed 
the day before. But against this all the members 
very warmly objected. They knew no reason why 
any member of the club should be indulged with 
a particular hearing, when many of them had 
published whole volumes which had never been 
looked into. They insisted that the law should 
be observed, where reading in company was ex- 
pressly noticed. It was in vain that the plaintiff 
pleaded the peculiar merit of his piece ; he spoke 
to an assembly insensible to all remonstrances : 
the book of laws was opened, and read by the se- 
cretary ; where it was expressly enacted, ' That 
whatsoever poet, speech-maker, critic, or histo- 
rian, should presume to engage the company by 
reading his own works, he was to lay down six- 
pence previous to opening the manuscript, and 
should be charged one shilling an hour while he 
continued reading ; the said shilling to be equally 
distributed among the company, as a recompense 
for their trouble.' 

Our poet seemed at first to shrink at the pe- 
nalty, hesitating for some time whether he should 
deposit the fine, or shut up the poem ; but look- 
ing round, and perceiving two strangers in the 
room, his love of fame outweighed his prudence, 
and laying down the sum by law established, he 
insisted on his prerogative. 

A profound silence ensuing, he began by ex- 
plaining his design : ' Gentlemen,' says he, ' the 
present piece is not one of your common epic po- 
ems, which come from the press like paper kites 
in summer ; there are none of your Turnuses or 
Didos in it ; it is an heroical description of nature. 
I only beg you'll endeavour to make your souls 
in unison with mine, and hear with the same en- 
thusiasm with which I have written. The poem 
begins with the description of an author's bed- 
chamber ; the picture was sketched in my own 
apartment ; for you must know, gentlemen, that 
I am myself the hero.' Then putting himself 
into the attitude of an orator, with all the em- 
phasis of voice and action, he proceeded : 

* Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way, 

Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaigne, 

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ; 

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug. 

The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ; . 

A window, patched with paper, lent a ray,. 

That dimly showed the state in which he lay ; 

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread. 

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 

The royal game of goose Was there in view ; 

And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew : 

The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 

And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face: 

Tlusmorn was cold, he views with keen desire 

The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire : 

With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scorM, 

And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board t 

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 

A cap by night— a stocking all the day 1' 

With this last line he seemed so much elated, that 



he was unable to proceed. * There, gentlemen, 
cries he, ' there is a description for you ! Rabe- 
lais's bed-chamber is but a fool to it : 

A cap ly niglit — a stocking all the day ! 
There is sound, and sense, and truth, and na- 
ture, in the trifling compass of ten little sylla- 
bles.' 

He was too much employed in self-admiration 
to observe the company ; who, by nods, winks, 
shrugs, and stifled laughter, testified every mark 
of contempt. He turned severally to each for 
their opinion, and found all, however, ready to 
applaud. One swore it was inimitable; another 
said it was damn'd fine ; and a third cried out in a 
rapture, Carissimo! At last, addressing him- 
self to the president, ' And pray, Mr. Squint,' 
says he, ' let us have your opinion.' — ' Mine,' 
answered the (president, taking the manuscript 
out of the author's hands, ' may this glass suf- 
focate me, but I think it equal to any thing I 
have seen; and I fancy,' continued he, doubling 
up the poem, and forcing it into the author's 
pocket, * that you will get great honour when it 
comes out; so I shall beg leave to put it in. We 
will not intrude upon your good nature, in de- 
siring to hear more of it at present ; ex ungue 
Herculem, we are satisfied, perfectly satisfied.' 
The author made two or three attempts to pull 
it out a second time, and the president made 
as many to prevent him. Thus, though with re- 
luctance, he was at last obliged to sit down, con- 
tented with the commendations for which he had 
paid. 

When this tempest of poetry and praise was 
blown over, one of the company changed the sub- 
ject, by wondering how any could be so dull as to 
write poetry at present, since prose itself would 
hardly pay. ' Would you believe it, gentlemen,' 
continued he, ' I have actually written last week, 
sixteen prayers, twelve bawdy jests, and three 
sermons, all at the rate of a sixpence a piece ; 
and what is still more extraordinary, the book- 
seller has lost by the bargain. Such sermons 
would once have gained me a prebend's stall ; but 
now, alas ! we have neither piety, taste, nor hu- 
mour, amongst us. Positively, if this season 
does not turn out better than it has begun, un- 
less the ministry commit some blunders to fur- 
nish us with a new topic of abuse, I shall resume 
my old business of working at the press, instead 
of finding it employment.* 

The whole club seemed to join in condemning 
the season as one of the worst that had come for 
some time ; a gentleman particularly observed, 
that the nobility were never known to subscribe 
worse than at present. ' I know not how it hap- 
pens,' said he, ' though I follow them up as close 
as possible, yet I can hardly get a single subscrip- 
tion in a week. The houses of the great are as 
inaccessible as a frontier garrison at midnight. 
I never see a nobleman's door half opened, that 
some surly porter or footman does not stand full 
in the breach. I was yesterday to wait with a 
subscription proposal upon my lord Squash the 
Creolian. I had posted myself at his door the 
whole morning, and just as he was getting into 
his coach, thrust my proposal snug into his hand, 
folded up in the form of a letter from myself. He 
just glanced at the superscription, and not know- 
ing the hand, consigned it to his valet-de-cham- 
bre ; this respectable personage treated it as his 



THE CITZEN OF THE WORLD. 



33 



master, and put it into the hands of the porter 
The porter grasped my proposal, frowning ; and, 
measuring my figure from top to toe, put it back 
into my own hands unopened.' 

' To the devil I pitch all the nobility,' cries a 
little man, in a peculiar accent ; ' I am sure they 
have of late used me most scurvily. You must 
know, gentlemen, some time ago, upon the arri- 
val of a certain noble duke from his travels, I set 
myself down, and vamped up a fine flaunted poe- 
tical panegyric, which I had written in such a 
strain, that I fancied it would have even wheed- 
led milk from a mouse. In this I presented the 
whole kingdom welcoming his grace to his native 
soil, not forgetting the loss France and Italy 
would sustain in their arts by his departure. . I 
expected to touch for a bank-bill at least ; so fold- 
ing up my verses in gilt paper, I gave my last 
half-crown to a genteel servant to be the bearer. 
My letter was safely conveyed to his grace ; and 
the servant, after four hours' absence, during 
which time I led the life of a fiend, returned with 
a letter four times as big as mine. Guess my 
ecstasy at the prospect of so fine a return. I ea- 
gerly took the packet into my hands, that trem- 
bled to receive it. I kept it some time unopened 
before me, brooding over the expected treasure it 
contained ; when opening it, as I hope to be saved, 
gentlemen, his grace had sent me in payment for 
my poem, no bank-bills, but six copies of verse, 
each longer than mine, addressed to him upon the 
same occasion.' 

' A nobleman,' cries a member who had hi- 
therto been silent, ' is created as much for the 
confusion of us authors, as the catch-pole. Fll 
tell you a story, gentlemen, which is as true as 
this pipe is made of clay. When I was delivered 
of my first book, I owed my tailor for a suit of 
clothes ; but that is nothing new, you know, and 
may be any man's case as well as mine. Well, 
owing him for a suit of clothes, and hearing that 
my book took very well, he sent for his money, 
and insisted upon being paid immediately. 
Though I was at that time rich in fame, for my 
book run like wild-fire, yet I was very short in 
money, and being unable to satisfy his demand, 
prudently resolved to keep my chamber, preferring 
a prison of my own choosing at home, to one 
of my tailor's abroad. In vain the bailiffs used 
all their arts to decoy me from my citadel ; in 
vain they sent to let me know, that a gentleman 
wanted to speak with me at the next tavern ; 
in vain they came with an urgent message from 
my aunt in the country ; in vain I was told 
that a, particular friend was at the point of death, 
and desired to take his last farewell ; I was deaf, 
insensible, rock, adamant. The bailiffs could 
make no impression on my hard heart, for I 
effectually kept my liberty by never stirring out 
of the roam. 

' This was very well for a fortnight ; when one 
morning I received a most splendid message from 
the Earl of Doomsday, importing that he had read 
my book, and was in raptures with every line of 
it ; he impatiently longed to see the author, and 
had some designs which might turn out greatly 
to my advantage. I paused upon the contents of 
the message, and found there could be no deceit, 
for the card was gilt at the edges, and the bearer, 
I was told, had quite the iooks of a gentleman. 
Witness, ye powers, how my heart triumphed at 
my min importance » I saw a long perspective fe- 



licity before me ; I applauded the taste of the 
times, which never saw genius forsaken ;- I had 
prepared a set, introductory speech for the occa- 
sion, five glaring compliments for his lordship, 
and two more modest for myself. The next 
morning, therefore, in order to be punctual to my 
appointment, I took coach, and ordered the fellow 
to drive to the street and house mentioned in his 
lordship's address. I had the precaution to pull 
up the windows as I went along to keep off the 
busy part of mankind; and, big with expecta- 
tion, fancied the coach never went fast enoughs 
At length, however, the wished-for moment of its- 
stopping arrived; this for some time I impa- 
tiently expected ; and letting down the door in a* 
transport, in order to take a previous view of hia 
lordship's magnificent palace, and situation^ 
I found — poison to my sight ! I found myself, not 
in an elegant street, but a paltry lane, not a no- 
bleman's door, but at the door of a spunging- 
house ; I found the coachman had all this while 
been just driving me on to gaol, and I saw the 
bailiff, with a devil's face, coming out to secure me.' 
To a philosopher, no circumstance, however 
trifling, is too minute; he finds instruction and 
entertainment in occurrences which are passed 
over by the rest of mankind as low, trite, and in- 
different; it is from the number of these par- 
ticulars, which to many appear insignificant, that 1 
he is at last enabled to form general conclusions y 
this, therefore, must be my excuse for sending so* 
far as China, accounts of manners, and follies,. 
which, though minute in their own nature, serve 
more truly to characterize this people; than his- 
tories of their public treaties,, courts, ministers,, 
negotiations, and ambassadors. Adieu. 

LETTER XXXL 
From the same. 

The English have not yet brought the art of "gar- 
dening to the same perfection with the Chinese, 
but have lately begun to imitate them ; nature is- 
now followed with greater assiduity than for- 
merly; the trees are suffered to shoot out into the: 
utmost luxuriance; the streams, no longer forced " 
from their native beds, are permitted to wind 
along the valleys : spontaneous flowers take place 
of the finished parterre, and the enamelled meadow 
of the shaven green. 

Yet still the English are far behind us in thi& 
charming art; their designers have not yet atr 
tained a power of uniting instruction with beauty. . 
A European will scarcely conceive my meaning, , 
when I say that there is scarce a garden in China , 
which does not contain some fine moral, couched 
under the general design, where one is not taught 
wisdom as he walks, and feels the force of some 
noble truth, or delicate precept, resulting from 
the disposition of the groves, streams, or grottos. 
Permit me to illustrate what I mean by a descrip- 
tion of my gardens at Quamsi. My heart still 
hovers round those scenes of former happiness 
with pleasure; and I find a satisfaction in en- 
joying them at this distance, though but in- 
imagination. 

You descended from the house between two. 
groves of trees, planted in such a manner that- 
they were impenetrable to the eye; while on each, 
hand the way was adorned with all that was., 
beautiful in porcelain, statuary, and painting. 
c 



34= 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



This passage from the house opened into an area 
surrounded with roeks, flowers, trees, and shrubs; 
but all so disposed as if each was the spontaneous 
production of nature. As you proceeded forward 
on this lawn, to your right and left hand, were 
two gates opposite each other, of very different 
architecture and design; and before you lay a 
temple, built rather with minute elegance than 
ostentation. 

The right hand gate was planned with the 
utmost simplicity, or rather rudeness; ivy clasped 
round the pillars, the baleful cypress hung over it, 
time seemed to have destroyed all the smoothness 
and regularity of the stone ; two champions with 
lifted clubs appeared in the act of guarding its 
access; dragons and serpents were seen in the 
most hideous attitudes, to deter the spectator 
from approaching ; and the perspective view that 
lay behind, seemed dark and gloomy to the' last 
degree ; the stranger was tempted to enter only 
from th« motto, 'Pervia virtuti.' 

The opposite gate was formed in a different 
manner; the architecture was light, elegant, and 
inviting ; flowers hung in wreaths round the 
pillars; all was finished in the most exact and 
masterly manner ; the very stone of which it was 
built, still preserved its polish; nymphs, wrought 
by the hand of a master, in the most alluring 
attitudes, beckoned the stranger to approach : 
while all that lay behind, as far as the eye could 
reach, seemed gay, luxuriant, and capable of 
affording endless pleasure. The motto itself con- 
tributed to invite him, for over the gate was 
written these words, ' Facilis descensus.' 

By this time I fancy you begin to perceive that 
the gloomy gate was designed to represent the 
road to virtue ; the opposite, the more agreeable 
passage to vice. It is but natural to suppose, that 
the spectator was always tempted to enter by the 
gate which offered him so many allurements ; I 
always, in these cases, left him to his choice; but 
generally found that he took to the left, which 
promised most entertainment. 

Immediately upon his entering the gate of vice, 
the trees and flowers were disposed in such a 
manner as to make the most pleasing impression; 
but as he walked further on, he insensibly found 
the garden assume the air of a wilderness, the 
landscapes began to darken, the paths grew more 
intricate, he appeared to go downwards, frightful 
rocks seemed to hang over his head, gloomy 
caverns, unexpected precipices, awful ruins, heaps 
of unburied bones, and terrifying sounds, caused 
by unseen waters, began to take place of what at 
irst appeared so lovely : it was in vain to attempt 
returning; the labyrinth was too much perplexed 
for any but myself to find the way back. In 
short, when sufficiently impressed with the hor- 
rors of what he saw, and the imprudence of his 
choice, I brought him by a hidden door, a shorter 
way back into the area from whence he had 
strayed. 

"The gloomy gate now presented itself before 
the stranger ; and though there seemed little in 
its appearance to tempt his curiosity, yet, en- 
couraged by the motto, he generally proceeded. 
The darkness of the entrance, the frightful figures 
that seemed to obstruct his way, the trees of a 
mournful green, conspired at first to disgust him : 
as he went forward, however, all began to open 
and wear a more pleasing apearance; beautiful 
cascades, beds of flowers, trees loaded with fruit 



or blossoms and unexpected brooks, improved the 
scene: he now found that he was ascending, and 
as he proceeded, all nature grew more beautiful, 
the prospect widened as he went higher, even th« 
air itself seemed to become more pure. Thus 
pleased, and happy from unexpected beauties, I 
at last led him to an arbour, from whence he 
could view the garden and the whole country 
around, and where he might own, that the road 
to virtue terminated in happiness. 

Though from this description you may imagine, 
that a vast tract of ground was necessary to ex- 
hibit such a pleasing variety in, yet, be assured, 
that I have seen several gardens in England take 
up ten times the space which mine did, without 
half the beauty. A very small extent of ground 
is enough for an elegant taste: the greater room 
is required if magnificence is in view. There is 
no spot, though ever so little, which a skilful 
designer might not thus improve, so as to convey 
a delicate allegory, and impress the mind with 
truths the most useful and necessary. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXII. 
Prom the same. 

In a late excursion with my friend into the 
country, a gentleman, with a blue riband tied 
round his shoulder, and in a chariot drawn by six 
horses, passed swiftly by us, attended with a 
numerous train of captains, lackeys, and coaches 
filled with women. When we were recovered 
from the dust raised by this cavalcade, and coull 
continue our discourse without danger of suffoca- 
tion, I observed to my companion, that all this 
state and equipage, which he seemed to despise, 
would, in China, be regarded with the utmost 
reverence, because such distinctions were always 
the reward of merit : the greatness of a man- 
darine's retinue being a most certain mark of the 
superiority of his abilities or virtue. 

'The gentleman who has now passed us,' re- 
plied my companion, 'has no claims from his 
own merit to distinction ; he is possessed of 
neither abilities nor virtue ; it is enough for him 
that one of his ancestors was possessed of these 
qualities two hundred years before him. There 
was, a time, indeed, when his family deserved 
their title, but they long since degenerated ; and 
his ancestors, for more than a century, have been 
more solicitous to keep up the breed of their dogs 
and horses, than that of their children. This 
very nobleman, simple as he seems, is descended 
from a race of statesmen and heroes; but, un- 
luckily, his great grandfather marrying a cook- 
maid, and she having a trifling passion for his 
lordship's groom, they somehow crossed the strain, 
and produced an heir, who took after his mother 
in his great love to good eating, and his father in 
a violent affection for horse flesh. These passions 
have, for some generations, passed on from father 
to son, and are now become the characteristics of 
the family, his present lordship being equally 
remarkable for his kitchen and stable.' 

' But such a nobleman,' cried I, ' deserves our 
pity, thus placed in so high a sphere of life, which 
only the more exposes to contempt. A king may 
confer titles, but it is personal merit alone that 
insures respect. I suppose,' added I, ' that such 
men, who are so very unfit to fill up their dignity 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



35 



are despised by their equals, neglected by their 
inferiors, and condemned to live among involun- 
tary dependents in irksome solitude.' 

' You are still under a mistake,' replied my com- 
panion ; ' for though this nobleman is a stranger 
to generosity, though he takes twenty opportuni- 
ties in a day of letting his guests know how much 
he despises them ; though he is possessed neither 
of taste, wit, nor wisdom; though incapable of 
improving others by his conversation, and never 
known to enrich any by his bounty; yet for all 
this, his company is eagerly sought after : he is a 
lord, and that is as much as most people desire in 
a companion. Quality and title have such allure- 
ments that hundreds are ready to give up all their 
own importance, to cringe, to flatter, to look little, 
and to pall every pleasure in constraint, merely 
to be among the great, though without the least 
hopes of improving their understanding, or sharing 
their generosity; they might be happy among 
their equals, but those are despised for company, 
where they are despised in turn. You saw what 
a crowd of humble cousins, card-ruined beaux, 
and captains on half-pay, were willing to make 
up this great man's retinue down to his country- 
seat. Not one of all these that could not lead a 
more comfortable life at home in their little lodg- 
ing of three shillings a week, with their luke-warm 
dinner, served up between two pewter plates from 
a cook'sshop. Yet, poor devils, they are Avilling 
to undergo the impertinence and pride of their 
entertainer, merely to be thought to live among 
the great ; they are willing to pass the summer in 
bondage, though conscious they are taken down 
only to approve his lordship's taste upon every 
occasion, to tag all his stupid observations with a 
' very true,' to praise his table, and descant upon 
his claret and cookery.' 

' The pitiful humiliations of the gentlemen you 
are now describing,' said I, ' puts me in mind of 
a custom among the Tartars of Koreki, not en- 
tirely dissimilar to this we are now considering.* 
The Russians, who trade with them, carry thither 
a kind of mushrooms, which they exchange for 
furs of squirrels, ermines, sables, and foxes. 
These mushrooms the rich Tartars lay up in large 
quantities for the winter; and when a nobleman 
makes a mushroom-feast, all the neighbours around 
are invited. The mushrooms are prepared by 
boiling, by which the water acquires an intoxi- 
cating quality, and is a sort of drink which the 
Tartars prize beyond all other. When the no- 
bility and ladies are assembled, and the ceremo- 
nies usual between people of distinction over, the 
mushroom-broth goes freely round : they laugh, 
talk double-entendres, grow fuddled, and become 
excellent company. The poorer sort, who love 
mushroom-broth to distraction as well as the rich, 
but cannot afford it at the first hand, post them- 
selves on these occasions round the huts of the 
rich, and watch the opportunity of the ladies and 
gentlemen as they come down to pass their liquor, 
and holding a wooden bowl, catch the delicious 
fluid, very little altered by filtration, being still 
: strongly tinctured with the intoxicating quality. 
! Of this they drink with the utmost satisfaction ; 
and thus they get as drunk and as jovial as their 
betters.' 

* Van Stralenbergr, a writer of credit, gives the same 
: account of this people. Fide an Historical and Geogra- 
! pineal Description of the North-eastern parts of Europe 
• and Asia, p. 397. 



'Happy nobility!' cries my companion, 'who 
can fear no diminution of respect, unless by being 
seized with a strangury ; and who, when most 
drunk are most useful ; though we have not this 
custom among us, I foresee, that if it were intro- 
duced, we might have many a toad-eater in Eng- 
land ready to drink from the wooden bowl on those 
occasions, and to praise the flavour of his lord- 
ship's liquor. As we have different classes of 
gentry, who knows but we might see a lord hold- 
ing a bowl to a minister, a knight holding it to 
his lordship, and a simple squire drinking it 
double distilled from the loins of knighthood. 
For my part, I shall never for the future hear a 
great man's flatterers haranguing in his praise, 
that I shall not fancy I behold the wooden bowl; 
for I can see no reason why a man, who can live 
easily and happily at home, should bear the 
drudgery of decorum, and the impertinence of his 
entertainer, unless intoxicated with a passion for 
all that was quality, unless he thought that what- 
ever came from the great was delicious, and had 
the tincture of the mushroom.' Adieu. 



LETTER XXXIII. 

From the same. 
I am disgusted, O Fum Hoam, even to sickness 
disgusted. Is it possible to bear the presumption 
of those islanders, when they pretend to instruct 
me in the ceremonies of China ! They lay it down 
as a maxim, that every person that comes from 
thence, must express himself in metaphor ; swear 
by Alia, rail against wine, and behave and talk, 
and write, like a Turk or Persian. They make 
no distinction between our elegant manners and 
the voluptuous barbarities of our eastern neigh- 
bours. Whenever I come, I raise either diffidence 
or astonishment: some fancy me no Chinese, 
because I am formed more like a man than a 
monster; and others wonder to find one born five 
thousand miles from England with common sense. 
' Strange,' say they, ' that a man who has received 
his education at such a distance from London, 
should have common sense ! to be born out of 
England, and yet have common sense ! impossi- 
ble ! He must be some Englishman in disguise ; 
his very visage has nothing of the true exotic bar- 
barity.' 

I yesterday received an invitation from a lady 
of distinction, who, it seems, had collected all her 
knowledge of eastern manners from fictions every 
day propagated here, under the titles of Eastern 
Tales, and Oriental Histories ; she received me 
very politely, but seemed to wonder, that I neglect- 
ed bringing opium and a tobacco box. When 
chairs were drawn for the rest of the company, I 
was assigned my place on a cushion on the floor. 
It was in vain that I protested the Chinese used 
chairs as in Europe ; she understood decorum too 
well to entertain me with the ordinary civilities. 

I had scarce been seated according to her direc- 
tions, when the footman was ordered to pin a nap- 
kin under my chin. This I protested against, as 
being no way Chinese ; however, the whole com- 
pany, who it seems were a club of connoisseurs, 
gave it unanimously against me, and the napkin 
was pinned accordingly. 

It was impossible to be angry with people, who 
to err only from an excess of politeness, 



36 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



and I sat contented, expecting their importunities 
were now at an end : but as soon as ever dinner 
was served, the lady demanded whether I was for 
a plate of bears' claws, or a slice of birds' nests ? 
As these were dishes with which I was utterly 
unacquainted, I was desirous of eating only what 
I knew, and therefore begged to be helped from a 
piece of beef that lay on the side table ; my request 
at once disconcerted the whole company. A Chi- 
nese eat beef, that could never be ! there was no 
local propriety in Chinese beef, whatever there 
might be in Chinese pheasant. ' Sir,' said my 
entertainer,' I think I have some reasons to fancy 
myself a judge of these matters ; in short, the 
Chinese never eat beef ; so that I must be permitted 
to recommend the pilaw, there was never better 
dressed at Pekin ; the saffron and rice are well 
boiled, and the spices in perfection.' 

I had no sooner begun to eat what was laid be- 
fore me, than I found the whole company as much 
astonished as before ; it seems I made no use of 
my chopsticks. A grave gentleman whom I take 
to be an author, harangued very learnedly, as the 
company seemed to think, upon the use which 
was made of them in China; he entered into a 
long argument with himself about their first intro- 
duction, without once appealing to me, who might 
be supposed best capable of silencing the inquiry. 
As the gentleman, therefore, took my silence for 
a mark of his own superior sagacity, he was re- 
solved to pursue the triumph ; he talked of our 
cities, mountains, and animals, as familiarly as if 
he had been born in Quamsi, but as erroneously 
as if a native of the moon ; he attempted to prove 
that I had nothing of the true Chinese cut in my 
visage ; showed that my cheek-bones should have 
been higher, and my forehead broader ; in short, 
he almost reasoned me out of my country, and 
• effectually persuaded the rest of the company 
to be of his opinion. 

I was going to expose his mistakes, when it 
was insisted, that I had nothing of the true east- 
ern manner in my delivery. ' This gentleman's 
conversation,' says one of the ladies, who was a 
great reader, ' is like our own, mere chit-chat and 
common sense ; there is nothing like sense in the 
true eastern style, where nothing more is required 
but sublimity. Oh for a history of Aboulfaouris, 
the grand voyager of genii, magicians, rocks, bags 
of bullets, giants, and enchanters, where all is 
great, obscure, magnificent, and unintelligible !'— 
' I have written many a sheet of eastern tales my- 
self,' interrupts the author, ' and I defy the seve- 
rest critic to say, but that I have stuck close to 
the true manner. I have compared a lady's chin 
to the snow upon the mountains of Bomek; a 
soldier's sword to the clouds that obscure the face 
of heaven. If riches are mentioned, I compare 
them to the flocks that graze the verdant Tafflis ; 
if poverty, to the mists that veil the brow of Mount 
Baku. I have used thee and thou upon all occa- 
sions ; I have described fallen stars and splitting 
mountains, not forgetting the little Houries, who 
make a pretty figure in every description. But 
you shall hear how I generally begin. ' Eben- 
benbolo, who was the son of Ban, was born on the 
foggy summits of Benderabassi. His beard was 
whiter than the feathers which veil the breast of 
the penguin ; his eyes were like the eyes of doves, 
when washed by the dews of the morning; his 
hair, which hung like the willow weeping over 
the glassy stream, was so beautiful, that it seemed 



to reflect its own brightness ; and his feet were as 
the feet of a wild deer, which fleeth to the tops of 
the mountains.' There, there is the true eastern 
taste for you ; every advance made towards sense 
is only a deviation from sound. Eastern tales should 
always be sonorous, lofty, musical, and unmean- 
ing.' 

I could not avoid smiling to hear a native of 
England attempt to instruct me in the true eastern 
idiom ; and after he had looked round some time 
'for applause, I presumed to ask him, whether he 
had ever travelled into the east? to which he re- 
plied in the negative: I demanded whether he 
understood Chinese or Arabic ? To which he also 
answered as before. ' Then how, sir,' said I, 
' can you pretend to determine upon the eastern 
style, who are entirely unacquainted with the 
eastern writings ? Take, sir, the word of one who 
is professedly a Chinese, and who is actually ac- 
quainted with the Arabian writers, that what is 
palmed upon you daily for an imitation of eastern 
writing, no-wise resembles their manner, either in 
sentiment or diction. In the east, similies are 
seldom used, and metaphors almost wholly un- 
known ; but in China particularly, the very reverse 
of what you allude to takes place ; a cool phleg- 
matic method of writing prevails there. The 
writers of that country, ever more assiduous to 
instruct than to please, address rather the judg- 
ment than the fancy. Unlike many authors of 
Europe, who have no consideration of the reader's 
time, they generally leave more to be understood 
than they express. 

' Besides, sir, you must not expect from an 
inhabitant of China the same ignorance, the same 
unlettered simplicity, that you find in a Turk, 
Persian, or native of Peru. The Chinese are 
versed in the sciences as well as you, and are 
masters of several arts unknown to the people of 
Europe. Many of them are instructed not only 
in their own national learning, but are perfectly 
well acquainted with the languages and learning 
of the west. If my word in such a case is not to 
be taken, consult your own travellers on this 
head, who affirm, that the scholars of Pekin and 
Siam sustain theological theses in Latin. ' The 
college of Masprend, which is but a league from 
Siam,' says one of your travellers,* ' came in a 
body to salute our ambassador. Nothing gave me 
more sincere pleasure, than to behold a number 
of priests, venerable both from age and modesty, 
followed by a number of youths af all nations, 
Chinese, Japanese, Tonquinese, of Cochin China, 
Pegu, and Siam, all willing to pay their respects 
in the most polite manner imaginable. A Cochin 
Chinese made an excellent Latin oration upon this 
occasion; he was succeeded, and even outdone, 
by a student of Tonquin, who was as well skilled 
in the western learning as any scholar of Paris.' 
Now, sir, if youths who never stirred from home, 
are so perfectly skilled in your laws and learning, 
surely more must be expected from one like me, 
who has travelled so many thousand miles, who 
has conversed familiarly for several years with 
the English factors established at Canton, and the 
missionaries sent us from every part of Europe. 
The unaffected of every country nearly resemble 
each other, and a page of our Confucius and your 
Tillotson have scarce any material difference. 

* Journal ou suite du voyage de Siam, en forme de Let- 
tres familiares, fait en 1685 and 1686, par M. L. D. C. p. 
174. edit. Amstelod. 1686. 



THE CITIZEN OJ? THE WORLD. 



37 



Paltry affectation, strained allusions, and disgust- 
ing finery, are easily attained by those who choose 
to wear them; they are but too frequently the 
badges of ignorance, or of stupidity, whenever it 
would endeavour to please.' 

I was proceeding in my discourse, when looking 
round, I perceived the company no way attentive 
to what I attempted with so much earnestness to 
enforce. One lady was whispering her that sat 
next, another was studying the merits of a fan, a 
third began to yawn, and the author himself fell 
fast asleep. I thought it therefore high time to 
make a retreat, nor did the company seem to show 
any regret at my preparations for departure; e\»en 
the lady who had invited me, with the most mor- 
tifying insensibility, saw me seize my hat, and 
rise from my cushion ; nor was I invited to repeat 
my visit, because it was found that I aimed at 
appearing rather a reasonable creature, than an 
outlandish idiot. Adieu. 



LETTER XXXIV. 

To the same, 

Thb polite arts are in this country subject to as 
many revolutions as its laws or politics; not only 
the objects of fancy and dress, but even of delicacy 
and taste, are directed by the capricious influence 
of fashion. I am told there has been a time when 
poetry was universally encouraged by the great, 
when men of the first rank, not only patronized 
the poet, but produced the finest models for his 
imitation ; it was then that the English sent forth 
those glowing rhapsodies, which we have so often 
read over together with rapture ; poems big with 
all the sublimity of Mentius, and supported by 
reasoning as strong as that of Zimpo. 

The nobility are ever fond of wisdom, but they 
also are fond of having it without study ; to read 
poetry required thought, and the English nobility 
were not fond of thinking ; they soon, therefore, 
placed their affections upon music, because in this 
they might indulge a happy vacancy, and yet still 
have pretensions to delicacy and taste as before. 
They soon brought their numerous dependents 
into an approbation of their pleasures; who in 
turn, led their thousand imitators to feel or feign 
a similitude of passion. Colonies of. singers were 
now imported from abroad at a vast expense, and 
it was expected the English would soon be able to 
set examples to Europe: all these expectations, 
however, were soon dissipated; in spite of the 
zeal which fired the great, the ignorant vulgar 
refused to be taught to sing, and refused to undergo 
the ceremonies which were to initiate them in the 
singing fraternity. Thus the colony from abroad 
dwindled by degrees ; for they were of themselves, 
unfortunately, incapable of propagating the breed. 

Music having thus lost its splendour, painting 
is now become the sole object of fashionable care ; 
the title of connoisseur in that art is at present 
flie safest passport to every fashionable society; a 
well-timed shrug, an admiring attitude, and one 
or two exotic tones of exclamation, are sufficient 
qualifications for men of low circumstances to 
curry favour; even some of the young nobility 
are themselves early instructed in handling the 
pencil, while their happy parents, big with ex- 
pectation, foresee the walls of every apartment 
covered with the manufactures of their posterity 



But many of the English are not content with 
giving all their time to this art at home ; some 
young men of distinction are found to travel 
through Europe, with no other intent, than that 
of understanding and collecting pictures, studying 
seals, and describing statues ; on they travel from 
this cabinet of curiosities to that gallery of pic- 
tures ; waste the prime of life in wonder, skilful 
in pictures, ignorant in men ; yet impossible to be 
reclaimed, because their follies take shelter under 
the names of delicacy and taste.' 

It is true, painting should have due encourage- 
ment ; as the painter can undoubtedly fit up our 
apartments in a much more elegant manner than 
the upholsterer; but I should think a man of 
fashion makes but an indifferent exchange, who 
lays out all that time in furnishing his house, 
which he should have employed in the furniture 
of his head; a person who shows no other symp- 
toms of taste than his cabinet or gallery, might as 
well boast to me of the furniture of his kitchen. 

I know no other motive but vanity that induces 
the great to testify such an inordinate passion for 
pictures ; after the piece' is bought, and gazed at 
eight or ten days successively, the purchaser's 
pleasure must surely be over; all the satisfaction 
he can then have is to show it to others. He may 
be considered as the guardian of a treasure of 
which he makes no manner of use; his gallery is 
finished not for himself but the connoisseur, who 
is generally some humble flatterer, ready to feign 
a rapture he does not feel, and as necessary to the 
happiness of a picture-buyer, as gazers are to the 
magnificence of an Asiatic procession. 

I have inclosed a letter from a youth of dis- 
tinction on his travels, to his father in England; 
in which he appears addicted to no vice, seems 
obedient to his governor, of a good natural dis- 
position, and fond of improvement; but, at the 
same time, early taught to regard cabinets and 
galleries as the only proper schools of improve- 
ment, and to consider a skill in pictures as the 
properest knowledge for a man of quality. 

' My loud,— -We have been but two days at 
Antwerp ; wherefore, I have sat down as soon as 
possible to give you some account of what we 
have seen since our arrival, desirous of letting no 
opportunity pass without writing to so good a 
father. Immediately upon alighting from our 
Rotterdam machine, my governor, who is immo- 
derately fond of paintings, and, at the same time, 
an excellent judge, would let no time pass, till 
we paid our respects to the church of the virgin- 
mother, which contains treasure beyond estima- 
tion. We took an infinity of pains in knowing 
its exact dimensions, and differed half a foot in 
our calculation; so I leave that to some succeed- 
ing information. I really believe my governor 
and I could have lived and died here.* There is 
scarce a pillar in the whole church that is not 
adorned by a Rubens, a Vander Meuylen, a 
Vandyke, or Woverman. What attitudes, car- 
nations, and draperies! I am almost induced to 
pity the English, who have none of these ex- 
quisite pieces among them. As we were willing 
to let slip no opportunity of doing business, we 
immediately after went to wait on Mr. Hogen- 
dorp, whom you have so frequently recommended 
for his judicious collection. His cameos are in- 
deed beyond price; his intaglios not so good. He 
showed us one of an officiating flamen, which he 
thought to be an antique; but my governor, who 



38 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



is not to be deceived in these particulars, soon 
found it to be an arrant cinque cento. I could 
not, however, sufficiently admire the genius of 
Mr. Hogendorp, who has been able to collect from 
all parts of the world a thousand things which 
nobody knows the use of. Except your lordship 
and my governor, I do not know any body I 
admire so much. He is indeed a surprising 
genius. The next morning early,, as we were re- 
solved to take the whole day before us, we sent 
our compliments to Mr. Van Sprocken, desiring 
to see his gallery; which request he very politely 
complied with. His gallery measures fifty feet 
by twenty, and is well filled; but what surprised 
me most of all, was to see a holy family just like 
your lordship's, which this ingenious gentleman 
assures me is the true original. I own this gave 
me inexpressible uneasiness, and I fear it will to 
your, lordship, as I had flattered myself, that the 
only original was in your lordship's possession. 
I would advise you, however, to take yours down 
till its merit can be ascertained, my governor 
assuring me, that he intends to write a long dis- 
sertation to prove its originality. One might 
study in this city for ages, and still find some- 
thing new. We went from this to view the car- 
dinal's statues, which are really very fine; there 
were three spintria, executed in a very masterly 
manner, all arm-in-arm ; the torse which I heard 
you talk so much of, is at last discovered to be a 
' Hercules spinning, and not a Cleopatra bathing, 
as your lordship had conjectured; there has been 
a treatise written to prove it. 

' My lord Firmly is certainly a Goth, a Vandal, 
no taste in the world for painting. I wonder how 
any call him a man of taste. Passing through 
the streets of Antwerp a few days ago, and ob- 
serving the nakedness of the inhabitants, he was 
so barbarous as to observe, that he thought the 
best method the Flemings could take, was to sell 
their pictures and buy clothes. Ah, Cogline ! we 
shall go to-morrow to Mr. Carwarden's cabinet, 
and the next day we shall see the curiosities col- 
lected by Van Ran, and the day after we shall 
pay a visit to Mount Calvary, and after that — but 
I find my paper finished; so with the most sincere 
wishes for your lordship's happiness, and with 
hopes, after having seen Italy, that centre of 
pleasure, to return home worthy the care and ex- 
pense which has been generously laid out in my 
improvement. — I remain, my lord, yours, &c.' 



LETTER XXXV. 

From Hingpo, a slave in Persia, to Altangi, a travelling 
philosopher of China, by the way of Moscow. 

Fortune has made me the slave of another, but 
nature and inclination render me entirely subser- 
vient to you; a tyrant commands my body, but 
you are master of my heart. And yet, let not thy 
inflexible nature condemn me, when I confess 
that I find my soul shrink with my circum- 
stances. I feel my mind, not less than my body, 
bend beneath the rigours of servitude ; the master 
whom I serve grows every day more formidable. 
In spite of reason, which should teach me to 
despise him, his hideous image fills even my 
dreams with horror. 

A few days ago, a Christian slave, who wrought 
in the gardens, happening to enter an arbour 



where the tyravit was entertaining the ladies of 
his harem with coffee, the unhappy captive was 
instantly stabbed to the heart for his intrusion. 
I have been preferred to his place; which, though 
less laborious than my former station, is yet more 
ungrateful, as it brings me nearer him whose 
presence excites sensations at once of disgust and 
apprehension. 

Into what state of misery are the modern Per- 
sians fallen ! A nation famous for setting the 
world an example of freedom, is now become a 
land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. The house- 
less Tartar of Kamkatska, who enjoys his herbs 
and his fish in unmolested freedom, may be en- 
vied, if compared to the thousands who pine here 
in hopeless servitude, and curse the day that 
gave them being. Is this just dealing, Heaven ! 
to render millions wretched to swell up the hap- 
piness of a few? cannot the powerful of this earth 
be happy without our sighs and tears? must every 
luxury of the great be woven from the calamities 
of the poor? It must, it must surely be, that this 
jarring discordant life is but the prelude to some 
future harmony ; the soul, attuned to virtue here, 
shall go from hence to fill up the universal choir 
where Lien presides in person, where there shall 
be no tyrants to frown, no shackles to bind, nor 
no whips to threaten ; where I shall once more 
meet my father with rapture, and give a loose to 
filial piety ; where I shall hang on his neck and 
hear the wisdom of his lips, and thank him for ail 
the happiness to which he has introduced me. 

The wretch whom fortune has made my master, 
has lately purchased several slaves of both sexes ; 
among the rest, I hear a Christian captive talked 
of with admiration. The eunuch who bought 
her, and who is accustomed to survey beauty with 
indifference, speaks of her with emotion? Her 
pride, however, astonishes her attendant slaves 
not less than her beauty: it is reported that she 
refuses the warmest solicitations of her haughty 
lord ; he has even offered to make her one of his 
four wives upon changing her religion, and con 
forming to his. It is probable she cannot refuse 
such extraordinary offers, and her delay is perhaps 
intended to enhance her favours. 

I have just now seen her; she inadvertently 
approached the place without a veil, where I sat 
waiting. She seemed to regard the heavens alone 
with fixed attention : there her most ardent gaze 
was directed. Genius of the sun! what unex- 
pected softness ! what animated grace ! Her 
beauty seemed the transparent covering of virtue. 
Celestial beings could not wear a look of more 
perfection, while sorrow humanized her form, 
and mixed my admiration with pity. I rose from 
the bank on which I sat, and she retired ; happy 
that none observed us, for such an interview 
might have been fatal. 

I have regarded, till now, the opulence and the 
power of my tyrant without envy; I saw him with 
a mind incapable of enjoying the gifts of fortune, 
and consequently regarded him as one loaded, 
rather than enriched, with its favours. But, at 
present, when I think that so much beauty is re- 
served only for him, that so many charms shall 
be lavished on a wretch incapable of feeling the 
greatness of the blessing, I own I feel a reluctance 
to which I have hitherto been a stranger. 

But let not my father impute these uneasy sen- 
sations to so trifling a cause as love. No, never 
let it be thought, that your son, and the pupil of 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



39 



the wise Fum Hoam, could stoop to so degrading 
a passion. I am only displeased at seeing so 
much excellence so unjustly disposed of. 

The uneasiness which I feel is not for myself, 
but for the beautiful Christian. When I reflect 
on the barbarity of him for whom she is designed, 
I pity, indeed I pity her. When I think that she 
must only share one heart, who deserves to com- 
mand a thousand, excuse me, if I feel an emotion, 
which universal benevolence extorts from me. As 
I am convinced that you take a pleasure in those 
sallies of humanity, and are particularly pleased 
with compassion, I could not avoid discovering 
the sensibility with which I felt this beautiful 
stranger's distress. I have for a while forgot, in 
hers, the miseries of my own hopeless situation. 
The tyrant grows every day more severe; and 
love, which softens all other minds into tender- 
ness, seems only to have increased his severity. 
Adieu. 



LETTER XXXVI. 

From the same. 

The whole harem is filled with a tumultuous 
joy ; Zelis, the beautiful captive, has consented to 
embrace the religion of Mahomet, and become 
one of the wives of the fastidious Persian. It is 
impossible to describe the transport that sits on 
every face on this occasion. Music and feasting 
fill every apartment; the most miserable slave 
seems to forget his chains, and sympathizes with 
the happiness of Mostadad. The herb we tread 
beneath our feet is not made more for our use, 
than every slave around him for their imperious 
master; mere machines of obedience, they wait 
with silent assiduity, feel his pains, and rejoice in 
his exultation. Heavens ! how much is requisite 
to make one man happy. 

Twelve of the most beautiful slaves, and I 
among the number, have got orders to prepare for 
carrying him in triumph to the bridal apartment. 
The blaze of perfumed torches are to imitate the 
day ; the dancers and singers are hired at a vast 
expense. The nuptials are to be celebrated on 
the approaching feast of Barboura, when a hun- 
dred taels in gold are to be distributed among the 
barren wives, in order to pray for fertility from 
the approaching union. 

What will not riches procure? a hundred do- 
mestics, who curse the tyrant in their souls, are 
commanded to wear a face of joy, and they are 
joyful. A hundred flatterers are ordered to attend, 
and they fill his ears with praise. Beauty, all- 
commanding beauty, sues for admittance, and 
scarcely receives an answer; even love itself 
seems to wait upon fortune, or though the passion 
be only feigned, yet it wears every appearance of 
sincerity; and what greater pleasure can even 
true sincerity confer, or what would the rich have 
more. 

Nothing can exceed the intended magnificence 
of the bridegroom, but the costly dresses of the 
bride; six eunuchs, in the most sumptuous habits, 
are to conduct him to the nuptial couch, and wait 
his orders. Six ladies, in all the magnificence of 
Persia, are directed to undress the bride. Their 
business is to assist, to encourage her, to divest 
her of every encumbering part of her dress, all 
but the last covering, which, by an artful compli- 



cation of ribbons, is purposely made difficult tc 
unloose, and with which she is to part reluctantly 
even to the joyful possessor of her beauty. 

Mostadad, O my father, is no philosopher; and 
yet he seems perfectly contented with ignorance. 
Possessed of numberless slaves, camels, and 
women, he desires no greater possession. He 
never opened the page of Mentius, and yet all the 
slaves tell me that he is happy. 

Forgive the weakness of my nature, if I some- 
times feel my heart rebellious to the dictates of 
wisdom, and eager for happiness like his. Yet, 
why wish for his wealth with his ignorance? to be 
like him, incapable of sentimental pleasures, in- 
capable of feeling the happiness of making others 
happy, incapable of teaching the beautiful Zelis 
philosophy. 

What ! shall I in a transport of passion give up 
the golden mean, the universal harmony, the un- 
changing essence, for the possession of a hundred 
camels, as many slaves, thirty-five beautiful 
horses, and seventy-three fine women ? first blast 
me to the centre ! Degrade me beneath the most 
degraded! Pare my nails, ye powers of heaven! 
sre I would stoop to such an exchange. What ! 
part with philosophy, which teaches me to sup- 
press my passions instead of gratifying them, 
which teaches me even to divest my soul of pas- 
sion, which teaches serenity in the midst of tor- 
tures; philosophy, by which even now I am so 
very serene, and so very much at ease, to be per- 
suaded to part with it for any other enjoyment! 
Never, never; even though persuasion spoke in 
the accents of Zelis. 

A female slave informs me, that the bride is to 
be arrayed in a tissue of silver, and her naif 
adorned with the largest pearls of Ormus : but 
why tease you with particulars, in which we both 
are so little concerned : the pain I feel in separa- 
tion throws a gloom over my mind, which in this 
scene of universal joy, I fear may be attributed to 
some other cause. How wretched are those who 
are, like me, denied even the last resource of 
misery, their tears ! Adieu. 



LETTER XXXVII. 

From the same. 

I begin to have doubts, whether wisdom be 
alone sufficient to make us happy. Whether 
every step we make in refinement is not an inlet 
to new disquietudes. A mind too vigorous and 
active, serves only to consume the body to which 
it is joined, as the richest jewels are soonest found 
to wear their settings. 

When we rise in knowledge, as the prospect 
widens, the objects of our regard become more 
obscure, and the unlettered peasant, whose views 
are only directed to the narrow sphere around 
him, beholds nature with a finer relish, and tastes 
her blessings with a keener appetite than the phi- 
losopher, whose mind attempts to grasp a universal 
system. 

As I was some days ago pursuing this object 
among a circle of my fellow slaves, an ancient 
Guebre of the number, equally remarkable for his 
piety and wisdom, seemed touched with my con- 
versation, and desired to illustrate what I had 
been saying with an allegory, taken from the 
Zendavesta of Zoroaster: ' By this we shall be 



40 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



taught,' says he, ' that they who travel in pursuit 
of wisdom walk only in a circle, and after all 
their labour, at last return to their pristine ig- 
norance : and in this also we shall see, that 
enthusiastic confidence, or unsatisfying doubts, 
terminate all our inquiries. 

' In early times, before myriads of nations co- 
vered the earth, the whole human race lived to- 
gether in one valley. The simple inhabitants,, 
^surrounded on every side by lofty mountains, 
knew no other world but the little spot on which 
.they were confined. They fancied the heavens 
bent down to meet the mountain tops, and formed 
an impenetrable wall to surround them. None 
had ever yet ventured to climb the steepy cliff, in 
border to explore those regions that lay beyond it ; 
they knew the nature of the skies only from a tra- 
dition which mentioned their being made of ada- 
-mant ; traditions make up the reasonings of the 
simple, and serve to silence every inquiry. 

' In this sequestered vale, blessed with all the 
■spontaneous productions of nature, the honeyed 
blossom, the refreshing breeze, the gliding brook, 
-andgolden fruitage, the simple inhabitants seem- 
ed happy in themselves, in each other; they de- 
sired no greater pleasures, for they knew of none 
greater ; ambition, pride, and envy, were vices 
unknown among them ; and from this peculiar 
simplicity of its possessors, the country was called 
The Valley of Ignorance. 

' At length, however, an unhappy youth, more 
aspiring than the rest, undertook to climb the 
mountain's side, and examine the summits, which 
were hitherto deemed inaccessible. The inhabi- 
tants from below gazed with wonder at his intre- 
pidity ; some applauded his courage, others cen- 
sured his folly ; still, however, he proceeded to- 
wards the place where the earth and heavens 
•seemed to unite, and at length arrived at the 
wished for height, with extreme labour and assi- 
duity. 

' His first surprise was, to find the skies, not, 
..as he expected, within his reach, but still as far 
off as before; his amazement increased when he 
saw a wide extended region lying on the opposite 
side of the mountain ; but it rose to astonishment, 
when he beheld a country at a distance, more 
beautiful and alluring than even that he had just 
left behind. 

' As he continued to gaze with wonder, a ge- 
nius, with a look of infinite modesty, approach- 
ing, offered to be his guide and instructor. ' The 
•distant country which you so much admire,' says 
-the angelic being, is called the Land of Certainty ; 
in that charming retreat, sentiment contributes 
to refine every sensual banquet ; the inhabitants 
are blessed with every solid enjoyment, and still 
snore blessed in a perfect consciousness of their 
•own felicity ; ignorance in that country is wholly 
^unknown ; all there is satisfaction without alloy, 
for every pleasure first undergoes the examination 
-of reason. As for me, I am called the Genius of 
Demonstration, and am stationed here in order to 
I conduct every adventurer to that land of happi- 
ness through those intervening regions you see 
overhung with fogs and darkness, and horrid with 
forests, cataracts, caverns, and various other 
shapes of danger ; but follow me, and in time I 
may lead you to^that distant desirable land of 
tranquillity.' 

' The intrepid traveller immediately put him- 
self under the direction of the genius, and both 



journeying on together with a slow but agreeable 
pace, deceived the tediousness of the way by con- 
versation. The beginning of the journey seemed 
to promise true satisfaction ; but as they proceed- 
ed forward, the skies became more gloomy, and 
the way more intricate ; they often inadvertently 
approached the brow of some frightful precipice, 
or the brink of a torrent, and were obliged to 
measure back their former way. The gloom in- 
creasing as they proceeded, their pace became 
more slow ; they paused at every step, frequently 
stumbled, and their distrust and timidity increas- 
ed. The Genius of Demonstration, now, there- 
fore, advised his pupil to grope upon his hands 
and feet, as a method, though more slow, yet less 
liable to error. 

' In this manner they attempted to pursue their 
journey for sometime, when they were overtaken 
by another genius, who, with a precipitate pace, 
seemed travelling the same way. He was in- 
stantly known by the other to be the Genius of 
Probability. He wore two wide extended wings 
at his back, which incessantly waved, without in- 
creasing the rapidity of his motion ; his counte- 
nance betrayed a confidence that the ignorant 
might mistake for sincerity, and he had but one 
eye, which was fixed in the middle of his fore- 
head. 

' Servant of Hormizda,' cried he, approaching 
the mortal pilgrim, f if thou art travelling to the 
Land of Certainty, how is it possible to arrive 
there under the guidance of a genius who proceeds 
so slowly, and is so little acquainted with the 
way? follow me, we shall soon perform the jour- 
ney where every pleasure awaits our arrival.' 

' The peremptory tone in which this genius 
spoke, and the speed with which he moved for- 
ward, induced the traveller to change his con- 
ductor ; and leaving his modest companion be- 
hind, he proceeded forward with his more confi- 
dent director, seeming not a little pleased at the 
increased velocity of his motion. 

' But soon he found reasons to repent. When- 
ever a torrent crossed their way, his guide taught 
him to despise the obstacle by plunging him in ; 
whenever a precipice presented, he was directed 
to fling himself forward. Thus each moment 
miraculously escaping, his repeated escapes only 
served to increase his temerity. He led him, 
therefore, forward, amidst infinite difficulties, till 
they arrived at the borders of an ocean, which ap- 
peared unnavigable from the black mists that lay 
upon its surface. Its unquiet waves were of the 
darkest hue, and gave a lively representation of 
the various agitations of the human mind. 

' The Genius of Probability now confessed his 
temerity, owned his being an improper guide to 
the Land of Certainty, a country where no mor- 
tal had ever been permitted to arrive : but at the 
same time offered to supply the traveller with 
another conductor, who should carry him to the 
Land of Confidence ; a region where the inhabi- 
tants lived with the utmost tranquillity, and tasted 
almost as much satisfaction as if in the Land of 
Certainty. Not waiting for a reply, he stamped 
three times on the ground, and called forth the 
Demon of Error, a gloomy fiend of the servants 
of Arimanes. The yawning earth gave up the 
reluctant savage, who seemed unable to bear the 
iight of day. His stature was enormous, his co- 
lour black and hideous, his aspect betrayed a 
thousand varying passions, and he spread forth 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



41 



pinions that were fitted for the most rapid flight. 
The traveller at first was shocked at the spectre : 
but finding him obedient to superior power, he 
assumed his former tranquillity. 

' I have called you to duty,' cries the genius to 
the demon, ' to bear on your back a son of mor- 
tality over the Ocean of Doubts, into the Land of 
Confidence. I expect you'll perform your com- 
mission with punctuality. And as for you,' con- 
tinued the genius, addressing the traveller, ' when 
once I have bound this fillet round your eyes, let 
no voice of persuasion, nor threats the most ter- 
rifying, persuade you to unbind it in order to look 
round; keep the fillet fast, look not at the ocean 
below, and you may certainly expect to arrive at 
a region of pleasure.' 

1 Thus saying, and the traveller's eyes being 
covered, the demon, muttering curses, raised him 
on his back, and instantly upborne by his strong 
pinions, directed his flight among the clouds. 
Neither the loudest thunder, nor the most angry 
tempest, could persuade the traveller to unbind 
his eyes. The demon directed his flight down- 
wards, and skimmed the surface of the ocean; a 
thousand voices, some with loud invectives, others 
in sarcastic tones of contempt, vainly endeavoured 
to persuade him to look round ; but he still con- 
tinued to keep his eyes covered, and would in all 
probability have arrived at the happy land, had 
not flattery effected what other means could not 
perform. For now he heard himself welcomed 
on every side to the promised land, and a univer- 
sal shout of joy was sent forth at his safe arrival : 
the wearied traveller, desirous of seeing the long 
wished for country, at length pulled, the fillet 
from his eyes, and ventured to look round him. 
But he had unloosed the band too soon ; he was 
not yet above half way over. The demon, who 
was still hovering in the air, and had produced 
those sounds only in order to deceive, was now 
freed from his commission ; wherefore, throwing 
the astonished traveller from his back, the un- 
happy youth fell headlong into the subjacent 
Ocean of Doubts, from whence he never after was 
seen to arise.' 



LETTER XXXVIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hpam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

When Parmenio, the Grecian, had done some- 
thing which excited a universal shout from the sur- 
rounding multitude, he was instantly struck with 
the doubt, that what had their approbation must 
certainly be wrong ; and, turning to a philosopher 
who stood near him — ' Pray sir,' says he, ' pardon 
me ; I fear I have been guilty of some absurdity.' 

You know that I am not less than him aues- 
piser of the multitude; you. know that I equally 
detest flattery to the great ; yet so many circum- 
stances have occurred to give a lustre to the latter 
part of the present English monarch's reign, that 
I cannot withhold my contribution of praise; I 
cannot avoid the acknowledging the crowd for once 
just in their unanimous approbation. 

Yet think not that battles gained, dominion ex- 
tended, or enemies brought to submission, are the 
virtues which at present claim my admiration. 
Were the reigning monarch only famous for his. 
victories, I should regard his character with indif- 
ference; the boast of heroism, in this enlightened 



age, is justly regarded as a qualification of a very 
subordinate rank, and mankind now begin to look 
with becoming horror on these foes to man ; the 
virtue in this aged monarch which I have at 
present in view, is one of a much more exalted 
nature, is one of the most difficult of attainment, 
is the least praised of all kingly virtues, and yet 
deserves the greatest praise : the virtue I mean is 
justice: a strict administration of justice, without 
severity and without favour. 

Of all virtues this is the most difficult to be 
practised by a king who has a power to pardon. 
All men, even tyrants themselves, lean to mercy, 
when unbiassed by passions or interest; the heart 
naturally persuades to forgiveness, and pursuing 
the dictates of this pleasing deceiver, we are led 
to prefer our private satisfaction to public utility. 
What a thorough love for the public, what a strong 
command over the passions, what a finely con- 
ducted judgment, must he possess who opposes 
the dictates of reason to those of his heart, and 
prefers the future interest of his people to his own 
immediate satisfaction? 

If still to a man's own natural bias for tender- 
ness, we add the numerous solicitations made by 
a criminal's friends for mercy ; if we survey a 
king not only opposing his own feelings, but re- 
luctantly refusing those he regards, and this to 
satisfy the public, whose cries he may never hear, 
whose gratitude he may never receive ; this surely 
is true greatness ! Let us fancy ourselves for a 
moment in this just old man's place, surrounded 
by numbers, all soliciting the same favour, a 
favour that nature disposes us to grant, where the 
inducements to pity are laid before us in the 
strongest light, suppliants at our feet, some ready 
to resent a. refusal, none opposing a compliance; 
let us, I say, suppose ourselves in such a situa- 
tion, and I fancy we should find ourselves more 
apt to act the character of good natured men than 
of upright magistrates. 

What contributes to raise justice above all 
other kingly virtues is, that it is seldom attended 
with a due share of applause, and those who prac- 
tise it must be influenced by greater motives than 
empty fame. The people are generally well pleased 
with a, remission of punishment, and all that 
wears the appearance of humanity; it is the wise 
alone who are capable of discerning that impartial 
justice is the truest mercy; they know it to be 
very difficult, at once to compassionate, and yet 
condemn an object that pleadifor tenderness. 

I have been led into this common-place train of 
thought by a late striking instance, in this coun- 
try, of the impartiality of justice, and of the king's 
inflexible resolution of inflicting punishment where 
it was justly due. A man of the first quality, in 
a fit either of passion, melancholy, or madness, 
murdered his servant: it was expected that his 
station in life would have lessened the ignominy 
of his punishment; however, he was arraigned, 
condemned, and underwent the same degrading 
death with the meanest malefactor. It was well 
considered that virtue alone is true nobility: and 
that he whose actions sink him even beneath the 
vulgar, has no right to those distinctions which 
should be the rewards only of merit ; it was per- 
haps considered, that crimes were more heinous 
ajnong the higher classes of people, as necessity 
exposes them to fewer temptations. 

Over all the east, even China not excepted, a 
person of the same quality, guilty of such a crime, 



42 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



might, by giving up a share of his fortune to the 
judge, buy off his sentence. There are several 
countries even in Europe, where the servant is 
entirely the property of his master; if a slave kills 
his lord, he dies by the most excruciating tor- 
tures ; but if the circumstances are reversed, a 
small fine buys off the punishment of the offender. 
Happy the country where all are equal, and where 
those who sit as judges have too much intregrity 
to receive a bribe, and too much honour to pity 
from a similitude of the prisoner's title or circum- 
stances with their own! Such is England. Yet 
think not that it was always equally famed for 
this strict impartiality. There was a time even 
here when titles softened the rigours of the law 
when dignified wretches were suffered to live, and 
continue for years an equal disgrace to justice and 
nobility. 

To this day, in a neighbouring country, the 
great are often most scandalously pardoned for 
the most scandalous offences. A person is still 
alive among them who has more than once de- 
served the most ignominious severity of justice. 
His being of the blood royal, however, was thought 
a sufficient atonement for his being a disgrace to 
humanity. This remarkable personage took pleasure 
in shooting at the passengers below, from the top 
of his palace ; and in this most princely amuse- 
ment he usually spent some time every day. He 
was at length arraigned by the friends of a person 
whom in this manner he had killed, was found 
guilty of the charge, and condemned to die. His 
merciful monarch pardoned him in consideration 
Df his rank and quality. The unrepenting crimi- 
nal soon after renewed his usual entertainment, 
and in the same manner killed another man. He 
was a second time condemned ; and, strange to 
think, a second time received his majesty's par- 
don! Would you believe it? A third time the 
same man was guilty of the very same offence; a 
third time, therefore, the laws of his country found 
him guilty ; I wish for the honour of humanity ] 
could suppress the rest! A third time he was 
pardoned ! Will you not think such a story too 
extraordinary for belief? will you not think me 
describing the savage inhabitants of Congo? Alas ! 
the story is but too true, and the country where it 
was transacted regards itself as the politest in 
Europe ! Adieu. 




LETTER XXXIX. 



From Lien Chi Altangi to 



Merchant in Amsterdam. 



Ceremonies are different in every country, but 
true politeness is every where the same. Cere- 
monies, which take up so much of our attention, 
are only artificial helps which ignorance assumes, 
hi order to imitate politeness, which is the result 
of good sense and good nature. A person possessed 
of those qualities, though he had never seen a 
court, is truly agreeable ; and if without them, 
would continue a clown, though he had been all 
his life a gentleman usher. 

How would a Chinese, bred up in the formalities 
of an eastern court, be regarded, should he carry 
all his good manners beyond the great wall ? How 
would an Englishman, skilled in all the decorums 
of western good-breeding, appear at an eastern 
entertainment? would he not be reckoned more 
fantastically savage than even the unbred footman 

Ceremony resembles that base coin which cir- 
culates through a country by the royal mandate ; 
it serves every purpose of real money at home, 
but is entirely useless if carried abroad ; a person 
who should attempt to circulate his native trash 
in another country, would be thought ridiculous 
or culpable. He is truly well bred who knows 
when to value and when to despise those national 
peculiarities which are regarded by some with so 
much observance : a traveller of taste at once per- 
ceives that the wise are polite all the world over; 
but that fools are only polite at home. 

I have now before me two very fashionable 
letters upon the same subject, both written by 
ladies of distinction ; one of whom leads the fashion 
in England, and the other sets the ceremonies of 
China. They are both regarded in their respective 
countries, by all the beau-monde, as standards of 
taste, and models of true politeness, and both give 
us a true idea of what they imagine elegant in 
their admirers ; which of them understands true 
politeness, or whether either, you shall be at 
liberty to determine. The English lady writes 
thus to her female confidant : 

' As I live, my dear Charlotte, I believe the 
colonel will carry it at last; he is a most irresist- 
ible fellow, that's flat. So well dressed, so neat, 
so sprightly, and plays about one so agreeably, 
that, I vow, he has as much spirits as the marquis 
of Monkeyman's Italian greyhound. I first saw 
him at Ranelagh ; he shines there; he is nothing 
without Ranelagh, and Ranelagh nothing without 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



43 



him. The next day he sent a card, and compli- 
ments, desiring to wait on mamma and me to 
the music subscription. He looked all the time 
with such irresistible impudence, that positively 
he had something in his face which gave me as 
much pleasure as a pair-royal of naturals in my 
own hand. He waited on mamma and me next 
morning to know how we got home: you must 
know the insidious devil makes love to us both. 
Rap went the footman at the door; bounce went 
my heart; I thought he would have rattled the 
house down. Chariot drove up to the window, 
with his footmen in the prettiest liveries ; he has 
infinite taste, that's flat. Mamma had spent all 
the morning at her head ; but, for my part, I was 
in an undress to receive him; quite easy, mind 
that ; no way disturbed at his approach ; mamma 
pretended to be as degagee as I, and yet 1 saw her 
blush in spite of her. Positively he is a most 
killing devil ! We did nothing but laugh all the 
time he staid with us ; I never heard so many 
very good things before. At first he mistook 
mamma for my sister; at which she laughed: 
then he mistook my natural complexion for paint; 
at which I laughed: and then he showed us a 
picture on the lid of his snuff box, at which we all 
laughed. He plays piquet so very ill, and is so 
very fond of cards, and loses with such a grace, 
that positively he has won me ; I have got a cool 
hundred, but have lost my heart. I need not tell 
you that he is only a colonel of the train-bands. 
I am, dear Charlotte, your's for ever. 

•Belinda.' 

The Chinese lady addresses her confidant, a 
poor relation of the family, upon the same occa- 
sion.; in which she seems to understand decorums 
even better than the western beauty. You who 
have resided so long in China will readily acknow- 
ledge the picture to be taken from nature ; and 
by being acquainted with the Chinese customs, 
will better apprehend the lady's meaning. 

From Yaoua to Yaya. 
' Papa insists upon one, two, three, four hundred 
tales from the colonel my lover, before he parts 
with a lock of my hair. Ho, how I wish the dear 
creature may be able to produce the money, and 
pay papa my fortune. The colonel is reckoned the 
politest man in all Shensi. The first visit he paid 
at our house; mercy, what stooping, and cringing, 
and stooping, and fidgetting, and going back, and 
creeping forward, there was between him and 
papa, one would have thought he had got the 
seventeen books of ceremonies all by heart. When 
he was come into the hall he flourished his hands 
three times in a very graceful manner. Papa, 
who would not be undone, flourished his four 
times; upon this the colonel began again, and 
both thus continued flourishing for some minutes 
in the politest manner imaginable. I was posted 
in the usual place behind the screen, where I saw 
the whole ceremony through a slit. Of this the 
colonel was sensible, for papa informed him. I 
would have given the world to have shown him 
my little shoes, but had no opportunity. It was 
the first time I had ever the happiness of seeing 
any man but papa; and I vow, my dear Yaya, I 
thought my three souls would actually have fled 
from my lips. Ho, but he looked most charmingly ; 
he is reckoned the best shaped man in the whole 
province, for he is very fat and very short ; but 



even those natural advantages are improved by 
his dress, which is fashionable past description. 
His head was close shaven, all but the crown, and 
the hair of that was braided into a most beautiful 
tail, that, rearing down to his heels, was termi- 
nated by a bunch of yellow roses. Upon his first 
entering the room, I could easily perceive he had 
been highly perfumed with asafcetida. But then 
his looks, his looks, my dear Yaya, were irresist- 
ible ! He kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the 
wall during the whole ceremony, and I sincerely 
believe no accident could have discomposed his 
gravity, or drawn his eyes away. After a polite 
silence of two hours, he gallantly begged to have 
the singing women introduced, purely for my 
amusement. After one of them had for some time 
entertained us with her voice, the colonel and she 
retired for some minutes together, I thought they 
would never have come back ; I must own he is the 
most agreeable creature. Upon his return they 
again renewed the concert, and he continued to gaze 
upon the wall as usual; when, in less than half an 
hour more, ho ! but he retired out of the room with 
another. He is indeed a most agreeable creature. 
' When he came to take his leave, the whole 
ceremony began afresh ; papa would see him to 
the door, but the colonel swore he would rather 
see the earth turned upside down than permit 
him to stir a single step, and papa was at last 
obliged to comply. As soon as he got to the door, 
papa went out to see him on horseback; here they 
continued half an hour bowing and cringing, be- 
fore one would mount, or the other go in ; but the 
colonel was at last victorious. He had scarce 
gone a hundred paces from the house, when papa 
running out, halloo'd after him — ' A good journey.' 
Upon which the colonel returned, and would see 
papa into his house before he would depart. He 
was no sooner got home than he sent me a very 
fine present of duck-eggs painted of twenty dif- 
ferent colours. His generosity I own has won 
me. I have ever since been trying over the eight 
letters of good fortune, and have great hopes. 
All I have to apprehend is, that after he has mar- 
ried me, and that I am carried to his house close 
shut up in my chair, when he comes to have the 
first sight of my face, he may shut me up a second 
time and send me back to papa. However, I 
shall appear as fine as possible ; mamma and I 
have been to buy the clothes for my wedding. I 
am to have a newfony whang in my hair, the beak 
of which will reach down to my nose ; the milliner 
from whom we bought that and our ribbons cheat- 
ed us as if she had no conscience, and so to quiet 
mine I cheated her. All this is fair, you know. 
I remain, my dear Yaya, your ever faithful, 

' Yaoua.' 

LETTER XL. 
From the same. 
You have always testified the highest esteem for 
the English poets, and thought them not inferior 
to the Greeks, Romans, or even the Chinese, in 
the art. But it is now thought, even by the Eng- 
lish themselves, that the race of their poets is 
extinct; every day produces some pathetic excla- 
mation upon the decadence of taste and genius. 
* Pegasus,' say they, 'has slipped the bridle from 
his mouth, and our modern bards attempt to direct 
bis flight by catching him by the tail.' 



44 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Yet, my friend, it is only among the ignorant 
that such discourses prevail; men of true discern- 
ment can see several poets still among the English, 
some of whom equal, if not surpass their prede- 
cessors. The ignorant term that alone poetry 
which is couched in a certain number of syllables 
in every line, where a vapid thought is drawn out 
into a number of verses of equal length, and per- 
haps pointed with rhymes at the end. But glow- 
dng sentiment, striking imagery, concise expres- 
sion, natural description, and modulated periods, 
are full sufficient entirely to fill up my idea of 
this art, and make way to every passion. 

If my idea of poetry, therefore, be just, the 
.English are not at present so destitute of poetical 
merit as they seem to imagine. I can see several 
poets in disguise among them; men furnished 
with that strength of soul, sublimity of sentiment, 
-and grandeur of expression, which constitute the 
character. Many of the writers of their modern 
odes, sonnets, tragedies, or rebuses, it is true, 
deserve not the name, though they have done 
nothing but clink rhymes and measure syllables, 
for years together. Their Johnsons and Smolletts 
are truly poets ; though, for aught I know, they 
never made a single verse in their whole lives. 

In every incipient language, the poet and the 
prose writer are very distinct i* their qualifica- 
tions ; the poet ever proceeds first, treading un- 
beaten paths, enriching his native funds, and em- 
ployed in new adventures. The other follows 
with more cautious steps, and though slow in his 
-motions, treasures up every useful or pleasing 
discovery. But when once all the extent and the 
force ef the language is known, the poet then 
seems to rest from his labour, and is at length 
overtaken by his assiduous pursuer. Both cha- 
xacters are then blended into one, the historian 
and orator catch all the poet's fire, and leave him 
no real mark of distinction, except the iteration 
of numbers regularly returning. Thus, in the 
decline of ancient European learning, Seneca, 
though he wrote in prose, is as much a poet as 
Xucan ; and Longinus, though but a critic, more 
sublime than Apollonius. 

From this then it appears, that poetry is not 
discontinued, but altered among the English at 
present ; the outward form seems different from 
wkat it was, but poetry still continues internally 
the same ; the only question remains whether the 
metric feet used by the good writers of the last 
age or the prosaic numbers employed by the good 
writers of this, be preferable? And here the 
practice of the last age appears to me superior; 
they submitted to the restraint of numbers and 
similar sounds ; and this restraint, instead of di- 
minishing, augmented the force of their senti- 
ment and style. Fancy restrained may be com- 
pared to a fountain, which plays highest by dimi- 
nishing the aperture. Of the truth of this max- 
im, in every language, every fine writer is per- 
fectly sensible from his own experience ; and yet 
to explain the reason, would be perhaps as diffi- 
cult as to make a frigid genius profit by the dis- 
covery. 

There is still another reason in favour of the 
practice of the last age, to be drawn from the va- 
riety of modulation. The musical period in prose 
is confined to a very few changes ; the numbers 
in verse are capable of infinite variation. I speak 
not now from the practice of modern verse writ- 
ers, few of whom have any idea of musical vari- 



ety, but run on in the same monotonous flow 
through the whole poem; but rather from the 
example of their former poets, who were tolerable 
masters of this variety, and also from a capacity 
in the language of still admitting various unanti- 
cipated music. 

Several rules have been drawn up for varying 
the poetic measure, and critics have elaborately 
talked of accents and syllables ; but good sense 
and a fine ear, which rules can never teach, are 
what alone can, in such a case, determine. The 
rapturous flowings of joy, or the interruptions of 
indignation, require accents placed entirely dif- 
ferent, and a structure consonant to the emotions 
they would express. Changing passions, and 
numbers changing with those passions, made the 
whole secret of western as well as eastern poetry. 
In a word, the great faults of the modern pro- 
fessed English poets are, that they seem to want 
numbers which should vary with the passion, and 
are more employed in describing to the imagina- 
tion, than striking at the heart. Adieu. 



LETTER XLI. 

To the same. 

Some time since I sent thee, Oh holy disciple of 
Confucius! an account of the grand abbey or 
mausoleum of the kings and heroes of this nation. 
I have since been introduced to a temple not so 
ancient, but far superior in beauty and magnifi- 
cence. In this, which is the most considerable of 
the empire, there are no pompous inscriptions, no 
flattery paid the dead, but all is elegant and aw- 
fully simple. There are, however, a few rags 
hung round the walls, which have, at a vast ex- 
pense, been taken from the enemy in the present 
war. The silk of which they are composed, when 
new, might be valued at half a string of copper 
money in China; yet this wise people fitted out a 
fleet and an army in order to seize them ; though 
now grown old, and scarce capable of being patch- 
ed up into a handkerchief. By this conquest the 
English are said to have gained, and the French 
to have lost, much honour. Is the honour of Eu- 
ropean nations placed only in tattered silk ? 

In this temple I was permitted to remain du- 
ring the whole service ; and were you not already 
acquainted with the religion of the English, you 
might, from my description, be inclined to be- 
lieve them as grossly idolatrous as the disciples of 
Lao. The idol which they seem to address, strides 
like a Colossus, over the door of the inner temple, 
which here, as with the Jews, is esteemed the 
most sacred part of the building. Its oracles are 
delivered in a hundred various tones, which seem 
to inspire the worshippers with enthusiasm and 
awe : an old woman, who appeared to be the 
priestess, was employed in various attitudes, as 
she felt the inspiration. When it began to speak, 
all the people remained fixed in silent attention, 
nodding assent, looking approbation, appearing 
highly edified by those sounds, which, to a stran- 
ger, might seem inarticulate and unmeaning. 

When the idol had done speaking, and the 
priestess had locked up its lungs with a key, ob- 
serving almost all the company leaving the tem- 
ple, I concluded the service was over, and taking 
my hat, was going to walk away with the crowd, 
when I was stopped by the man in black, who 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



45 



assured me that the ceremony had scarcely yet he- 
gun. ' What !' cried I, ' do I not see almost the 
whole hody of the worshippers leaving the church? 
Would you persuade me, that such numbers, who 
profess religion and morality, would, in this 
shameless manner, quit the temple before the 
service was concluded ? You surely mistake ; 
not even the Kalmucs would be guilty of such an 
indecency, though all the object of their worship 
was but a joint-stool.' My friend seemed to 
blush for his countrymen, assuring me that those 
whom I saw running away, were only a parcel of 
musical blockheads, whose passion was merely 
for sounds, and whose heads were as empty as a 
fiddle-case ; ' those who remain behind,' says he, 
! are the truly religious ; they make use of music 
to warm their hearts and to lift them to a proper 
pitch of rapture ; examine their behaviour, and 
you will confess there are some among us who 
practise true devotion.' 

I now looked round me as he directed, but saw 
nothing of that fervent devotion which he had 
promised ; one of the worshippers appeared to be 
ogling the company through a glass ; another was 
fervent, not in addresses to heaven, but to his 
mistress ; a third whispered ; a fourth took snuff, 
and the priest himself, in a drowsy tone, read over 
the duties of the day. 

' Bless my eyes,' cried I, ' as I happened to 
look towards the door, ' what do I see ! one of 
the worshippers fallen fast asleep, and actually 
sunk down on his cushion; is he now enjoying 
the benefit of a trance, or does he receive the in- 
fluence of some mysterious vision?' — ' Alas, alas!' 
replied my companion, ' no such thing ; he has 
only had the misfortune of eating too hearty a 
dinner, and finds it impossible to keep his eyes 
open.' Turning to another part of the temple, I 
perceived a young lady just in the same circum- 
stances and attitude ; ' Strange,' cried I, ' can 
she too, have over-eaten herself?' — ' O fie,' re- 
plied my friend, ' you now grow censorious. She 
grow drowsy from eating too much ! that would 
be profanation. She only sleeps now, from having 
sat up all night at a brag party.'-—' Turn me where 
I will, then,' says I, ' I can perceive no single 
symptom of devotion among the worshippers, ex- 
cept from that old woman in the .corner, who sits 
groaning behind the long sticks of a mourning 
fan ; she, indeed, seems greatly edified by what 
she hears.' — ' Aye,' replied my friend. ' I knew 
we should find some to catch you ; I know her ; 
that is the deaf lady who lives in the cloisters.' 

In snort, the remissness of behaviour in almost 
all the worshippers, and some even of the guar- 
dians, struck me with surprise ; I had been taught 
to believe, that none were ever promoted to offices 
in the temple, but men remarkable for their 
superior sanctity, learning, and rectitude ; and 
there was no such thing heard of, as persons being 
introduced into the church merely to oblige a se- 
nator, or provide for the younger branch of a 
noble family. I expected, as their minds were 
continually set upon heavenly things, to see their 
eyes directed there also, and hoped from their be- 
haviour to perceive their inclinations correspond 
with their duty. But I am since informed, that 
some are appointed to preside over temples they 
never visit ; and, while they receive all the mo- 
ney, are contented with letting others do all the 
good. Adieu. 



LETTER XLII. 

From Fum Hoam, to Lien Chi Altangi, the discontented Wan- 
derer, by the way of Moscow. 

Must I ever continue to condemn thy perseve- - 
ranee, and blame that curiosity, which destroys 
thy happiness ? What yet untasted banquet, what 
luxury yet unknown, has rewarded thy painful 
adventures ? Name a pleasure which thy native 
country could not amply procure ; frame a wish 
that might not have been satisfied in China ? Why 
then such toil, and such danger, in pursuit of rap- 
tures within your reach at home. 

The Europeans, you will say, excel us in sci- 
ences and in arts ; those sciences which bound 
the aspiring wish, and those arts which tend to 
gratify even unrestrained desire. They may per- 
haps outdo us in the arts of building ships, cast- 
ing cannons, or measuring mountains; but are 
they superior in the greatest of all arts, the art of 
governing kingdoms and ourselves ? 

When I compare the history of China with that 
of Europe, how do I exult in being a native of 
that kingdom which derives its original from the 
sun ! Upon opening the Chinese history, I there 
behold an ancient extended empire, established by- 
laws which nature and reason seem to have dic- 
tated. The duty of children to their parents, a 
duty which nature implants in every breast, forms 
the strength of that government, which has sub- 
sisted from time immemorial. Filial obedience 
is the first and greatest requisite of a state ; by 
this we become good subjects to our emperors, ca- 
pable of behaving with just subordination to out 
superiors, and grateful dependents on heaven ; by 
this we become fonder of marriage, in order to be 
capable of exacting obedience from others in our 
turn ; by this we become good magistrates ; for 
early submission is the truest lesson to those who 
would learn to rule. By this the whole state may 
be said to resemble one family, of which the em- 
peror is the protector, father, and friend. 

In this happy region, sequestered from the rest 
of mankind, I see a succession of princes, who in 
general considered themselves as the fathers o± 
their people ; a race of philosophers, who bravely 
combated idolatry, prejudice, and tyranny, at the 
expense of their private happiness and imme- 
diate reputation. Whenever a usurper, or a ty- 
rant, intruded into the administration, how have 
all the good and great been united against him? 
Can European history produce an instance like 
that of the twelve mandarines, who all resolved 
to apprise the vicious emperor Tisiang of the irre- 
gularity of his conduct ? He who first undertook 
the dangerous task, was cut in two by the empe- 
ror's order; the second was ordered to be tor- 
mented, and then put to a cruel death ; the third 
undertook the task with intrepidity, and was in- 
stantly stabbed by the tyrant's hand : in this man- 
ner they all suffered except one. But not to be 
turned from his purpose, the brave survivor, en- 
tering the palace with the instruments of torture 
in his hand : • Here,' cried he, addressing him- 
self to the throne, ' here, O Tisiang, are the 
marks your faithful subjects receive for their loy- 
aJ*v ; I am wearied with serving a tyrant, and 
now come for my reward.' The emperor, struck 
with his intrepidity, instantly forgave the hold- 



46 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



ness of his conduct, and reformed his own. What 
European annals can boast of a tyrant thus re- 
claimed to lenity ! 

When five brethren had set upon the great em- 
peror Ginson alone, with his sabre he slew four of 
them; he was struggling with the fifth, when his 
guards coming up, were going to cut the con- 
spirator into a thousand pieces. ' No, no,' cried 
the emperor, with a calm and placid countenance, 
'of all his brothers he is the only one remaining; 
at least let one of the family be suffered to live, 
that his aged parents may have somebody left to 
feed and comfort them.' 

When Haitong, the last emperor of the house of 
Ming, saw himself besieged in his own city by the 
usurper, he was resolved to issue from his palace 
with six hundred of his guards and give the 
enemy battle ; but they forsook him. Being thus 
without hopes, and choosing death, rather than to 
fall alive into the hands of a rebel, he retired to 
his garden, conducting his little daughter, an only 
child, in his hand. There, in a private arbour, 
unsheathing his sword, he stabbed the young in- 
nocent to the heart, and then despatching himself, 
left the following words, written with his blood, 
on the border of his vest. ' Forsaken by my sub- 
jects, abandoned by my friends, use my body as 
you will, but spare, O spare my people !' 

An empire which has thus continued invariably 
the same for such a long succession of ages, which 
though at last conquered by the Tartars, still pre- 
serves its ancient laws and learning, and may 
more properly be said to annex the dominions of 
Tartary to its empire, than to admit a foreign 
conqueror; an empire as large as Europe, go- 
verned by one law, acknowledging subjection to 
one prince, and experiencing but one revolution 
of any continuance in the space of four thousand 
years ; this is something so peculiarly great, that 
I am naturally led to despise all other nations on 
the comparison. Here we see no religious per- 
secutions, no enmity between mankind for differ- 
ence in opinion. The disciples of Lao Kium, the 
idolatrous sectaries of Fohi, and the philosophical 
children of Confucius, only strive to show by their 
actions the truth of their doctrines. 

Now turn from this happy peaceful scene to 
Europe, the theatre of intrigue, avarice, and 
ambition. How many revolutions does it not ex- 
perience in the compass even of one age ! and to 
what do these revolutions tend, but the destruc- 
tion of thousands 1 Every great event is replete 
with some new calamity. The seasons of serenity 
are passed over in silence, their history seems to 
speak only of the storm. 

There we see the Romans extending their 
power over barbarous nations, and in turn be- 
coming a prey to those whom they had conquered. 
We see those barbarians, when become Christians, 
engaged in continual wars with the followers of 
Mahomet ; or more dreadful still, destroying each 
other. We see councils in the earlier ages au- 
thorizing every iniquity; crusades spreading de- 
solation in the country left, as well as that to be 
conquered. Excommunications freeing subjects 
from natural allegiance, and persuading to se- 
dition; blood flowing in the fields, and on scaf- 
folds ; tortures used as arguments to convince the 
recusant; to heighten the horror of the piece, 
behold it shaded with wars, rebellions, treasons, 
plots, politics, and poison ! 

And what advantage has any country of Europe 



obtained from such calamities? Scarce an/. 
Their dissensions for more than a thousand years, 
have served to make each other unhappy, but 
have enriched none. All the great nations still 
nearly preserve their ancient limits; none have 
been able to subdue the other, and so terminate 
the dispute. France, in spite of the conquests of 
Edward the Third, and Henry the Fifth, notwith- 
standing the efforts of Charles the Fifth, and 
Philip the Second, still remains within its ancient 
limits. Spain, Germany, Great Britain, Poland, 
the states of the north, are nearly still the same. 
What effect then has the blood of so many thou- 
sands, the destruction of so many cities, pro- 
duced? Nothing either great or considerable. 
The Christian princes have lost indeed much from 
the enemies of Christendom, but they have gained 
nothing from each other. Their princes, because 
they preferred ambition to justice, deserve' the 
character of enemies to mankind; and their 
priests, by neglecting morality for opinion, have 
mistaken the interests of society. 

On whatever side we regard the history of 
Europe, we shall perceive it to be a tissue of 
crimes, follies, and misfortunes, of politics with- 
out design, and wars without consequence. In 
this long list of human infirmity, a great character 
or a shining virtue may sometimes happen to 
arise, as we often meet a cottage or a cultivated 
spot in the most hideous wilderness ; but for an 
Alfred, an Alphonso, a Frederic, or one Alexander 
third, we meet a thousand princes who have dis- 
graced humanity. 



LETTER XLI1I. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

We have just received accounts here, that Vol- 
taire, the poet and philosopher of Europe, is dead. 
He is now beyond the reach of the thousand 
enemies, who, while living, degraded his writings, 
and branded his character. : . Scarce a page of his 
latter productions that does not betray the agonies 
of a heart bleeding under the scourge of unmerited 
reproach. Happy, therefore, at last in escaping 
from calumny ; happy in leaving a world that was 
unworthy of him and his writings. 

Let others, my friend, bestrew the hearses of 
the great with panegyric; but such a loss as the 
world has now suffered affects me with stronger 
emotions. When a philosopher dies, I consider 
myself as losing a patron, an instructor, and a . 
friend. I consider the world as losing one who 
might serve to console her amidst the desolations 
of war and ambition. Nature every day produces 
in abundance men capable of filling all the re- 
quisite duties of authority; but she is niggard in 
the birth of an exalted mind, scarcely producing 
in a century a single genius to bless and enlighten 
a degenerate age. Prodigal in the production of 
kings, governors, mandarines, chams, and cour- 
tiers, she seems to have forgotten, for more than 
three thousand years, the manner in which she 
once formed the brain of a Confucius ; and well 
it is she has forgotten, when a bad world gave 
aim 80 very bad a reception. 

Whence, my friend, this malevolence, which 



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47 



has ever pursued the great even to the tomb? 
Whence this more than fiend-like disposition, of 
embittering the lives of those who would make us 
more wise and more happy ? 

When I cast my eye over the fates of several 
philosophers, who have at different periods en- 
lightened mankind, I must confess it inspires- me 
with the most degrading reflections on humanity 
When I read of the stripes of Mentius, the tor- 
tures of Tchin, the bowl of Socrates, and the bath 
of Seneca; when I hear of the persecutions of 
Dante, the imprisonment of Galileo, the indig- 
nities suffered by Montaigne, the banishment of 
Cartesius, the infamy of Bacon, and that even 
Locke himself escaped not without reproach; 
when I think on such subjects, I hesitate whether 
most to blame the ignorance or the villany of my 
fellow creatures. 

Should you look for the character of Voltaire 
among the journalists and illiterate writers of the 
age, you will there find him characterized as a 
monster with a head turned to wisdom, and a 
heart inclining to vice; the powers of his mind, 
and the baseness of his principles, forming a de- 
testable contrast. But seek for his character 
among writers like himself, and you find him 
very differently described. You perceive him in 
their accounts, possessed of good nature, hu 
manity, greatness of soul, fortitude, and almost 
every virtue; in this description, those who 
might be supposed best acquainted with his cha- 
racter, are unanimous. The royal Prussian,* 
D'Argens,t Diderot,! D'Alambert, and Fonte- 
nelle, conspire in drawing the picture, in describ- 
ing the friend of man, and the patron of every 
rising genius. 

An inflexible perseverance in what he thought 
was right, and a generous detestation of flattery, 
formed the ground-work of this great man's 
character. From these principles, many strong 
virtues and few faults arose; as he was warm in 
his friendship, and severe in resentment, all that 
mention him seem possessed of the same qualities, 
and speak of him with rapture or detestation. A 
person of his eminence can have few indifferent 
as to his character ; every reader must be an 
enemy or an admirer. 

This poet began the course of glory so early as 
the age of eighteen, and even then was author of 
a tragedy which deserves applause. Possessed of 
a small patrimony, he preserved his independence 
in an age of venality, and supported the dignity 
of learning by teaching his contemporary writers 
to live like him, above all the favours of the 
great. He was banished his native country for a 
satire upon the royal concubine. He had accepted 
the place of historian to the French king, but re- 
fused to keep it, when he found it was presented 
only in order that he should be the first flatterer 
of the state. 

The great Prussian received him as an ornament 
to his kingdom, and had sense enough to value 
his friendship, and profit by his instructions. In 
this court he continued till an intrigue, with 
which the world seems hitherto unacquainted, 
obliged him to quit that country. His own hap- 
piness, the happiness of the monarch, of his sister, 
of a part of the court, rendered his departure 
necessary. 
Tired at length of courts, and all the follies of 

* Philosophe Sans Souci. f Let. Chin. 

X Encyolopned. 



the great, he retired to Switzerland, a country of 
liberty, where he enjoyed tranquillity and the 
muse. Here, though without any taste for mag- 
nificence himself, he usually entertained at his 
table the learned and polite of Europe, who were 
attracted by a desire of seeing a person from whom 
they had received so much satisfaction. The 
entertainment was conducted with the utmost 
elegance, and the conversation was that of phi- 
losophers. Every country that at once united 
liberty and science, were his peculiar favourites. 
The being an Englishman was to him a character 
that claimed admiration and respect. 

Between Voltaire and the disciples of Confucius, 
there are many differences ; however, being of 
a different opinion does not in the least diminish 
my esteem ; I am not displeased with my brother, 
because he happens to ask our father for favours 
in a different manner from me. Let his errors rest 
in peace, his excellencies deserve admiration ; let 
me with the wise admire his wisdom; let the 
envious and the ignorant ridicule his foibles ; the 
folly of others is ever most ridiculous to those who 
are themselves most foolish. Adieu. 



LETTER XLIV. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, a slave in Persia. 

It is impossible to form a philosophic system of 
happiness which is adapted to every condition in 
life, since every person who travels in this great 
pursuit takes a separate road. The differing 
colours which suit different complexions, are not 
more various than the different pleasures appro- 
priated to different minds. The various sects 
who have pretended to give lessons to instruct 
men in happiness, have described their own par- 
ticular sensations without considering ours; have 
only loaded their disciples with constraint, with- 
out adding to their real felicity. 

If I find pleasure in dancing, how ridiculous 
would it be in me to prescribe such an amuse- 
ment for the entertainment of a cripple ; should 
he, on the other hand, place his chief delight in 
painting, yet would not he be absurd in recom- 
mending the same relish to one who had lost the 
power of distinguishing colours. General direc- 
tions are therefore commonly useless ; and to be 
particular would exhaust volumes, since each in- 
dividual may require a particular system of pre- 
cepts to direct his choice. 

Every mind seems capable of entertaining a 
certain quantity of happiness, which no institu- 
tions can increase, no circumstances alter, and 
entirely independent on fortune. Let any man 
compare his present fortune with the past, and he 
will probably find himself, upon the whole, neither 
better nor worse than formerly. 

Gratified ambition, or irreparable calamity, may 
produce transient sensations of pleasure or dis- 
tress. Those storms may discompose in propor- 
tion as they are strong, or the mind is pliant to 
their impression. But the soul, though at first 
lifted up by the event, is every day operated upon 
with diminished influence, and at length subsides 
Into the level of its usual tranquillity. Should 
some unexpected turn of fortune take thee from 
fetters, and place thee on a throne, exultation 
would be natural upon the change; but the 



48 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



temper, like the face, would soon resume its 
native serenity. 

Every wish, therefore, which leads us to expect 
happiness somewhere else but where we are, 
every institution which teaches us that we should 
be better, by being possessed of something new, 
which promises to lift us a step higher than we 
are, only lays a foundation for uneasiness, because 
it contracts debts which we cannot repay ; it calls 
that a good, which when we have found it, will in 
fact add nothing to our happiness. 

To enjoy the present, without regret for the 
past, or solicitude for the future, has been the 
advice rather of poets than philosophers. And 
yet the precept seems more rational than is ge- 
nerally imagined. It is the only general precept 
respecting the pursuit of happiness, that can be 
applied with propriety, to every condition of life. 
The man of pleasure, the man of business, and 
the philosopher, are equally interested in its dis- 
quisition. If we do not find happiness in the 
present moment, in what shall we find it? Either 
in reflecting on the past, or prognosticating the 
future. But let us see how these are capable of 
producing satisfaction. 

A remembrance of what is past, and an antici- 
pation of what is to come, seem to be the two 
faculties by which man differs most from other 
animals. Though brutes enjoy them in a limited 
degree, yet their whole life seems taken up in the 
present, regardless of the past and the future. 
Man, on the contrary, endeavours to derive his 
happiness, and experiences most of his miseries, 
from these two sources. 

Is this superiority of reflection a prerogative of 
which we should boast, and for which we shall 
thank nature ; or is it a misfortune of which we 
should complain and be humble? Either from 
the abuse or from the nature of things, it certainly 
makes our condition more miserable. 

Had we a privilege of calling up, by the power 
of memory, only such passages as were pleasing, 
unmixed with such as were disagreeable, we 
might then excite at pleasure an ideal happiness, 
perhaps more poignant than actual sensation. 
But this is not the case; the past is never repre- 
sented without some disagreeable circumstance, 
which tarnishes all its beauty; the remembrance 
of an evil carries in it nothing agreeable, and to 
remember a good, is always accompanied with 
regret. Thus we lose more than we gain by 
remembrance. 

And we shall find our expectation of the future 
to be a gift more distressful even than the former. 
To fear an approaching evil is certainly a most 
disagreeable sensation; and in expecting an ap- 
proaching good, we experience the inquietude of 
wanting actual possession. 

Thus, whichever way we look, the prospect is 
disagreeable. Behind we have left pleasures we 
shall never more enjoy, and therefore regret; and 
before, we see pleasures which we languish to 
possess, and are consequently uneasy till we pos- 
sess them. Was there any method of seizing the 
present, unembittered by such reflections, then 
would our state be tolerably easy. 

This, indeed, is the endeavour of all mankind, 
who, untutored by philosophy, pursue as much as 
they can a life of amusement and dissipation. 
Every rank in life, and every size of understand- 
ing, seems to follow this alone; or, not pursuing 
it, deviates from happiness. The man of pleasure 



pursues dissipation by profession; the man of 
business pursues it not less, as every voluntary 
labour he undergoes is only dissipation in dis- 
guise. The philosopher himself, even while he 
reasons upon the subject, does it unknowingly 
with a view of dissipating the thoughts of what 
he was, or what he must be. 

The subject, therefore, comes to this : Which is 
the most perfect sort of dissipation, pleasure, busi- 
ness, or philosophy ? Which best serves to exclude 
those uneasy sensations which memory or antici- 
pation produce ? 

The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by 
intervals. The highest rapture lasts only for a 
moment, and all the senses seem so combined, as 
to be soon tired into languor by the gratification 
of any one of them. It is only among the poets 
we hear of men changing to one delight, when 
satiated with another. In nature, it is very dif- 
ferent : the glutton, when sated with the full meal, 
is unqualified to feel the real pleasure of drink- 
ing; the drunkard, in turn, finds few of those 
transports which lovers boast in enjoyment; and 
the lover, when cloyed, finds a diminution of 
every other appetite. Thus, after a full indul- 
gence of any one sense, the man of pleasure finds 
a languor in all, is placed in a chasm between past 
and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval 
which must be filled up. • The present can give 
no satisfaction, because he has already robbed it 
of every charm ; a mind thus left, without imme- 
diate employment, naturally recurs to the past or 
future : the reflector finds that he was happy, and 
knows that he cannot be so now; he sees that he 
may yet be happy, and wishes the hour was 
come; thus every period of his continuance is 
miserable, except that very short one of immedi- 
ate gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, 
none has more frequent conversations with dis- 
agreeable self than he; his enthusiasms are but 
few and transient; his appetites, like angry cre- 
ditors, continually making fruitless demands for 
what he is unable to pay; and the greater his 
former pleasures, the more strong his regret, the 
more impatient his expectations. A life of plea- 
sure is, therefore, the most unpleasing life in the 
world. 

Habit has rendered the man of business more 
cool in his desires ; he finds less regret for past 
pleasures, and less solicitude for those to come. 
The life he now leads, though tainted in some 
measure with hope, is yet not afflicted so strongly 
with regret, and is less divided between short 
lived rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures 
he has enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has 
to expect cannot consequently create so much 
anxiety. 

The philosopher, who extends his regard to all 
mankind, must still have a smaller concern for 
what has already affected, or may hereafter affect 
himself; the concerns of others make his whole 
study, and that study is his pleasure ; and this 
pleasure is continuing in its nature, because it can 
be changed at will, leaving but few of these anx- 
ious intervals, which are employed in remem- 
brance or anticipation. The philosopher, by this 
means, leads a life of almost continued dissipation : 
and reflection, which makes the uneasiness and 
misery of others, serve as a companion and in- 
structor to him. 

In a word, positive happiness is constitutional, 
and incapable of increase; misery is artificial, and 



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49 



generally proceeds from our folly. Philosophy can 
add to our happiness in no other manner but by di- 
minishing our misery; it should not pretend to in- 
crease our present stock, but make us economists 
of what we are possessed of. The great source of 
calamity lies in regret or anticipation : he, there- 
fore, is most wise, who thinks of the present alone, 
regardless of the past or the future. This is im- 
possible to the man of pleasure; it is difficult to 
the man of business; and is, in some measure, 
attainable by the philosopher. Happy were we 
all born philosophers, all born with a talent of 
thus dissipating our own cares, by spreading them 
upon all mankind. Adieu. 



LETTER XLV. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

Though the frequent invitations I receive from 
men of distinction here might excite the vanity 
of some, I am quite mortified, however, when I 
consider the motives that inspire their civility. 
I am sent for, not to be treated as a friend, but to 
satisfy curiosity ; not to be entertained, so much 
as wondered at : the same earnestness which ex- 
cites them to see a Chinese, would have made 
them equally proud of a visit from the rhinoceros. 

From the highest to the lowest, this people 
seem fond of sights and monsters. I am told of a 
person here, who gets a very comfortable livelihood 
by making wonders, and then selling or showing 
them to the people for money; no matter how 
insignificant they were in the beginning, by lock- 
ing them up close, and showing them for money, 
they soon become prodigies. His first essay in 
this way, was to exhibit himself as a wax-work 
figure behind a glass door at a puppet-show. 
Thus keeping the spectators at a proper distance, 
and having his head adorned with a copper crown, 
he looked extremely natural, and very like the 
life itself. He continued this exhibition with suc- 
cess, till an involuntary fit of sneezing brought 
him to life before all the spectators, and conse- 
quently rendered him for that time as entirely 
useless as the peaceable inhabitants of a catacomb. 

Determined to act the statue no more, he next 
levied contributions under the figure of an Indian 
king ; and by painting his face, and counterfeiting 
the savage howl ; he frighted several ladies and 
children with amazing success. In this manner, 
therefore, he might have lived very comfortably, 
had he not been arrested for a debt that was con- 
tracted when he was the figure in wax- work; 
thus his face underwent an involuntary ablution, 
and he found himself reduced to his primitive 
complexion and indigence. 

After some time, being freed from gaol, he was 
now grown wiser, and instead of making himself 
a wonder, was resolved only to make wonders. 
He learned the art of pasting up of mum- 
mies ; was never at a loss for an artificial lusns 
naturtz ; nay, it has been reported, that he has 
sold seven petrified lobsters of his own manufac- 
ture to a noted collector of rarities ; but this the 
learned Cracovius Putridus has undertaken to re- 
fute in a very elaborate dissertation. 

His last wonder was nothing more than a hal- 
ter; yet by this halter he gained mere than by all 



his former exhibitions. The people, it seems, 
had got it in their heads that a certain noble 
criminal was to be hanged with a silken rope. 
Now there was nothing they so much wished to 
see as this very rope; and he was resolved to 
gratify their curiosity : he therefore got one made, 
not only of silk, but to render it the more striking, 
several threads of gold were intermixed. The 
people paid their money only to see the silk,but were 
highly satisfied when they found it was mixed 
with gold into the bargain. It is scarce necessary 
to mention, that the projector sold his silken rope 
for almost what it had cost him, as soon as the 
criminal was known to be hanged in hempen 
materials. 

By their fondness of sights, one would be apt to 
imagine, that instead of desiring to see things as 
they should be, they are rather solicitous of seeing 
them as they ought not to be. A cat with four 
legs is disregarded, though ever so useful ; but if 
it has but two, and is consequently incapable of 
catching mice, it is reckoned inestimable, and 
every man of taste is ready to raise the auction. 
A man, though in his person faultless as an 
aerial genius, might starve ; but if struck over 
with hideous warts like a porcupine, his fortune is 
made for ever, and he may propagate his breed 
with impunity and applause. 

A good woman in my neighbourhood, who was 
bred a habit-maker, though she handled her needle 
tolerably well, could scarcely get employment. 
But being obliged by an accident to have both her 
hands cut off from her elbows, what would in 
another eountry have been her ruin, made her 
fortune here-; she now was thought more fit for 
her trade than before ; business flowed in apace, 
and all people paid for seeing the mantua-maker 
who wrought without hands. 

A gentleman showing me his collection of pic- 
tures stopped at one, with peculiar admiration : 
' There,' cries he, ' is an inestimable piece.' 1 
gazed at the picture for some time, but could see 
none of those graces with which he seemed enrap- 
tured ; it appeared to me the most paltry piece of 
the whole collection : I therefore demanded where 
those beauties lay of which I was yet insensible. 
' Sir,' cries he, ' the merit does not consist in the 
piece, but in the manner in which it was done. 
The painter drew the whole with his foot, and held 
the pencil between his toes ; I bought it at a very 
great price, for peculiar merit should ever be re- 
warded.' 

But these people are not more fond of wonders, 
than liberal in rewarding those who show them. 
From the wonderful dog of knowledge, at present 
under the patronage of the nobility, down to the 
man with the box, who professes to show * the 
most exact imitation of nature that ever was 
seen,' they all live in luxury. A singing woman 
shall collect subscriptions in her own coach and 
six; a fellow shall make a fortune by tossing a 
straw from his toe to his nose ; one in particular 
has found, that eating fire was the most ready 
way to live; and another, who jingles several 
bells fixed to his cap, is the only man that I know 
of, who has received emolument from the labours 
of his head. 

A young author, a man of good nature and 
learning, was complaining to me some nights 
ago, of this misplaced generosity of these times. 
1 Here,' says he, ' have I spent part of my youth in 
attempting to instruct and amuse my fellow crea- 

D 



50 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



tures, and all my reward has been solitude, po- 
verty, and reproach ; while a fellow, possessed of 
even the smallest share of fiddling merit, or who 
has perhaps learned to whistle double, is reward- 
ed, applauded, and caressed !' — ' Pr'ythee, young 
man,' says I to him, ' are you ignorant that in so 
large a city as this, it is better to be an amusing 
than a useful member of society ? Can you leap up, 
and touch your feet four times before you come to 
the ground V — ' No, sir,' — ' Can you pimp for a 
man of quality V — ' No, sir,' — ' Can you stand 
upon two horses at full speed?' — \ No, sir,' — 'Can 
you swallow a penknife V — ' I can do none of these 
tricks.' — 'Why then,' cried I, 'there is no other 
prudent means of subsistence left, but to apprise 
the town, that you speedily intend to eat up your 
own nose by subscription.' 

I have frequently regretted that none of our 
eastern posture-masters, or show-men, have ever 
ventured to England. I should be pleased to see 
that money circulate in Asia, which is now sent 
to Italy and France in order to bring their vaga- 
bonds hither. Several of our tricks would un- 
doubtedly give the English high satisfaction. 
Men of fashion would be greatly pleased with the 
postures, as well as the condescension, of our 
dancing girls ; and the ladies would equally ad- 
mire the conductors of our fire-works. What an 
ageeeable surprise would it be, to see a huge fel- 
low, with whiskers, flash a charged blunderbuss 
full in a lady's face, without singing her hair, or 
melting her pomatum ! Perhaps, when the first 
surprise was over, she might then grow familiar 
with danger : and the ladies might vie with each 
other in standing fire with intrepidity. 

But of all the wonders of the east, the most 
useful, and I should fancy the most pleasing, 
would be the looking-glass of Lao, which reflects 
the mind as well as the body. It is said, that the 
Emperor Chusi used to make his concubines dress 
their heads and their hearts in one of these glasses 
every morning; while the lady was at her toilet, he 
would frequently look over her shoulder ; and it is 
recorded, that among the three hundred which 
composed his seraglio, not one was found whose 
mind was not even more beautiful than her per- 
son. 

I make no doubt but a glass in this country- 
would have the very same effect. The English 
ladies, concubines and all, would undoubtedly 
cut very pretty figures in so faithful a monitor. 
There, should we happen to peep over a lady's 
shoulder while dressing, we might be able to see 
neither gaming nor ill-nature ; neither pride, 
debauchery, nor a love of gadding. We should 
find her, if any sensible defect appeared in the 
mind, more careful in rectifying it, than in plas- 
tering up the irreparable decays of the person; 
nay, I am even apt to fancy, that ladies would 
find more real pleasure in this utensil in private, 
than in any other bauble imported from China, 
though ever so expensive or amusing. 



LETTER XLVI. 

To the same. 

Upon finishing my last letter I retired to rest, 
reflecting upon the wonders of the glass of Lao. 
wishing to be possessed of one here, and resolved 
in such a case to oblige every lady with a sight of 



it for nothing. What fortune denied me waking, 
fancy supplied in a dream : the glass, I know not 
how, was put into my possession, and I could 
perceive several ladies approaching, some volun- 
tarily, others driven forward against their inclina- 
tion by a set of discontented genii, whom by intu- 
ition I knew were their husbands. 

The apartment in which I was to show away 
was filled with several gaming tables, as if just 
forsaken ; the candles were burnt to the sockets, 
and the hour was five o'clock in the morning. 
Placed at one end of the room, which was of pro- 
digious length, I could more easily distinguish 
every female figure as she marched up from the 
door ; but guess my surprise, when I could scarce 
perceive one blooming or agreeable face among 
the number. This, however, I attributed to the 
early hour, and kindly considered that the face of 
a lady just risen from bed ought always to find a 
compassionate advocate. 

The first person who came up in order to view 
her intellectual face was a commoner's wife, who, 
as I afterwards found, being bred up during her 
virginity in a pawnbroker's shop, now attempted 
to make up the defects of breeding and sentiment, 
by the magnificence of her dress, and the expen- 
siveness of her amusements. ' Mr. Showman,' 
cried she, approaching, ' I am told you has some- 
thing to show in that there sort of magic lanthorn, 
by which folks can see themselves on the inside ; I 
protest, as my lord Beetle says, I am sure it will 
be vastly pretty, for I have never seen any thing 
like it before. But how ; are we to strip off our 
clothes, and be turned inside out; if so, as lord 
Beetle says, I absolutely declare off; for I would 
not strip for the world before a man's face, and so 
I tells his lordship almost every night of my life.' 
I informed the lady that I would dispense with 
the ceremony of stripping, and immediately pre- 
sented my glass to her view. 

As when a first rate beauty, after having with 
difficulty escaped the small-pox, revisits her fa- 
vourite mirror ; that mirror which had repeated 
the flattery of every lover, and even added force 
to the compliment ; expecting to see what had so 
often given her pleasure, she no longer beholds 
the cherried lip, the polished forehead, and speak- 
ing blush, but a hateful phiz, quilted into a thou- 
sand seams by the hand of deformity; grief, re- 
sentment, and rage, fill her bosom by turns ; she 
blames the fates and the stars, but most of all the 
unhappy glass feels her resentment. So it was 
with the lady in question : she had never seen her 
own mind before, and was now shocked at its de- 
formity. One single look was sufficient to satisfy 
her curiosity. I held up the glass to her face, and 
she shut her eyes ; no entreaties could prevail 
upon her to gaze once more ! she was even going 
to snatch it from my hands, and break it in a 
thousand pieces. I found it was time, therefore, 
to dismiss her as incorrigible, and show away to 
the next that offered. 

This was an unmarried lady, who continued in 
a state of virginity till thirty-six, and then admit- 
ted a lover, when she despaired of a husband. No 
woman was louder at a revel than she, perfectly 
free-hearted, and almost in every respect a man ; 
she understood ridicule to perfection, and was 
once known even to sally out in order to beat the 
watch. ' Here, you, my dear with the outlandish 
face,' said she, addressing me, ' let me take a 
single peep. Not that I care three damns what a 



THK CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



51 



figure I cut in the glass of such an old fashioned 
creature ; if I am allowed the beauties of the face 
by people of fashion, I know the world will be 
complaisant enough to toss me the beauties of the 
mind into the bargain.' I held my glass before 
her as she desired, and must confess, was shocked 
with the reflection. The lady, however, gazed 
for some time with the utmost complacency ; and 
at last turning to me, with the most satisfied 
smile, said, she never could think she had been 
half so handsome. 

Upon her dismission, a lady of distinction was 
reluctantly hauled along to the glass by her hus- 
band. In bringing her forward, as he came first 
to the glass himself, his mind appeared tinctured 
with immoderate jealousy, and I was going to re- 
proach him for using her with such severity ; but 
when the lady came to present herself, I immedi- 
ately retracted ; for alas ! it was seen that he had 
but too much reason for his suspicions. 

The next was a lady who usually teased all her 
acquaintance in desiring to be told of her faults, 
and then never mended any. Upon approaching 
' the glass, I could readily perceive vanity, affecta- 
tion, and some other ill-looking blots, on her 
mind ; wherefore by my advice, she immediately 
set about mending. But I could easily find she 
was not in earnest in the work ; for as she repaired 
them on one side they generally broke out on 
another. Thus, after three or four attempts, she 
began to make the ordinary use of the glass in 
setting her hair. 

The company now made room for a woman of 
learning, who approached with a slow pace, and 
a solemn countenance, which, for her own sake, 
I wuld wish had been cleaner. ' Sir,' cried the 
lady, flourishing her hand, which held a pinch 
of snuff, ' I shall be enraptured by having pre- 
sented to my view a mind with which I have so 
long studied to be acquainted : but, in order to 
give the sex a proper example, I must insist, that 
all the company may be permitted to look over 
my shoulder.' I bowed assent, and presenting 
the glass, showed the lady a mind by no means 
so fair as she had expected to see. Ill-nature, ill- 
placed pride, and spleen, were too legible to be 
mistaken. Nothing could be more amusing than 
the mirth of her female companions who had 
looked over. They had hated her from the be- 
ginning, and now the apartment echoed with a 
universal laugh. Nothing but a fortitude like 
her's could have withstood their raillery : she 
stood it, however ; and when the burst was ex- 
hausted, with great tranquillity she assured the 
company, that the whole was a deceptio visits; 
and that she was too well acquainted with her 
own mind to believe any false representation from 
another. Thus saying, she retired with a sullen 
satisfaction, resolved not to mend her faults, but 
to write a criticism on the mental reflector. 

I must own, by this time I began myself to sus- 
pect the fidelity of my mirror ; for as the ladies 
appeared at least to have the merit of rising early, 
since they were up at five, I was amazed to find 
nothing of this good quality pictured upon their 
minds in the reflection ; I was resolved, there- 
fore, to communicate my suspicions to a lady, 
whose intellectual countenance appeared more 
fair than any of the rest, not having above seventy- 
nine spots in all, besides slips and foibles. • I 
own, young woman,' said I, « that there are some 
virtues upon that mind of your's ; but there is 



still one which I do not see represented ; I mean 
that of rising betimes in the morning; I fancy the 
glass false in that particular.' The young lady 
smiled at my simplicity; and, with a blush, con- 
fessed, that she and the whole company had been 
up all night gaming. 

By this time all the ladies, except one, had seen 
themselves successively, and disliked the show, 
or scolded the show-man ; I was resolved, how- 
ever, that she who seemed to neglect herself, and 
was neglected by the rest, should take a view ; 
and going up to a corner of the room, where she 
still continued sitting, I presented my glass full 
in her face. Here it was that I exulted in my 
success ; no blot, no staiD, appeared on any part 
of the faithful mirror. As when the large un- 
written page presents its snowy spotless bosom 
to the writer's hand, so appeared the glass to my 
view. ' Here, O ye daughters of English ances- 
tors,' cried I. ' turn hither, and behold an object 
wortky imitation : look upon the mirror now, and 
acknowledge its justice, and this woman's pre- 
eminence !' The ladies obeying the summons, 
came up in a group, and looking on, acknow- 
ledged there was some truth in the picture, as the 
person now represented had been deaf, dumb, 
and a fool from her cradle. 

This much of my dream I distinctly remember; 
the rest was filled with chimeras, enchanted cas- 
tles, and flying dragons, as usual. As you, my 
dear Fum Hoam, are particularly versed in the 
interpretation of those midnight warnings, what 
pleasure should I find in your explanation ; but 
that our distance prevents. I make no doubt, 
however, but that from my description you will 
very much venerate the good qualities of the 
English ladies in general, since dreams, you 
know, go always by contraries. Adieu. 



LETTER XL VII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo.a slave in Persia.* 

Your last letters betray a mind seemingly fond 
of wisdom, yet tempested up by a thousand va- 
rious passions. You would fondly persuade me, 
that my former lessons still influence your con- 
duct, and yet your mind seems not less enslaved 
than your body. Knowledge, wisdom, erudition, 
arts, and elegance, what are they, but the mere 
trappings of the mind, if they do not serve to in- 
crease the. happiness of the possessor ? A mind 
rightly instituted in the school of philosophy, ac- 
quires at once the stability of the oak, and the 
flexibility of the osier. The truest manner of 
lessening our agonies, is to shrink from their 
pressure ; is to confess that we feel them. 

The fortitude of European sages is but a dream : 
for where lies the merit in being insensible to the 
strokes of fortune, or in dissembling our sensi- 
bility? If we are insensible, that arises only 
from a happy constitution ; that is a blessing pre- 
viously granted by heaven, and which no art can 
procure, no institutions improve. 

If we dissemble our feelings, we only artificially 
endeavour to persuade others that we enjoy privi- 
leges which we actually do not possess. Thus, 
while we endeavour to appear happy, we feel at 

* This letter appears to he little more than a rhapsody 
of sentiments from Confucius. Vid. the Latin translation. 



52 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



once all the pangs of internal misery, and all the 
self-reproaching consciousness of endeavouring 
to deceive. 

I know but of two sects of philosophers ir. the 
world that have endeavoured to inculcate that 
fortitude is but an imaginary virtue : I mean the 
followers of Confucius, and those who profess the 
doctrines of Christ. All the other sects teach 
pride under misfortunes ; they also teach humi- 
lity. ' Night,' says our Chinese philosopher, 
1 not more surely follows the day, than groans and 
tears grow out of pain.' When misfortunes, 
therefore, oppress, when tyrants threaten, it is 
our interest, it is our duty, to fly even to dissipa- 
tion for support, to seek redress from friendship, 
or seek redress from the best of friends, who loved 
us into being. 

Philosophers, my son, have long declaimed 
against the passions, as being the source of all 
our miseries ; they are the source of all our mis- 
fortunes, I own, but they are the source of our 
pleasures too ; and every endeavour of our lives, 
and all the institutions of philosophy, should tend 
to this, not to dissemble an absence of passion, 
but to repel those which lead to vice by those 
which direct to virtue. 

The soul may be compared to a field of battle, 
where two armies are ready every moment to en- 
counter ; not a single vice but has a more pow- 
erful opponent ; and not one virtue, but may be 
overborne by a combination of vices. Reason 
guides the bands of either host; nor can it sub- 
due one passion, but by the assistance of another. 
Thus, as a bark on every side beset with storms, 
enjoys a state of rest, so % does the mind when in- 
fluenced by a just equipoise of the passions, enjoy 
tranquillity. 

I have used such means as my little fortune 
would admit, to procure your freedom. I have 
lately written to the governor of Argun to pay 
your ransom, though at the expense of all the 
Wealth I brought with me from China. If we be- 
come poor, we shall at least have the pleasure of 
bearing poverty together ; for what is fatigue or 
famine, when weighed against friendship and 
freedom 2 Adieu. 



LETTER XL VIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, *_* *, Merchant in Amsterdam. 

Happening some days ago to call at a painter's, 
to amuse myself in examining some pictures (I 
had no design to buy) it surprised me to see a 
young prince in the working-room, dressed in a 
painter's apron, and assiduously learning the trade. 
We instantly remembered to have seen each other ; 
and after the usual compliments, I stood by while 
he continued to paint on. As every thing done 
by the rich is praised, as princes here, as well as 
in China, are never without followers, three or 
four persons, who had the appearance of gentle- 
men, were placed behind to comfort and applaud 
him at every stroke. 

Need I tell, that it struck me with very dis- 
agreeable sensations, • to see a youth, who, by his 
station in life, had it in his power to be useful to 
thousands, thus letting his mind run to waste 
upon canvass, and at the same time fancying him- 



self improving in taste, and filling his rank with 
proper decorum.' 

As seeing an error, and attempting to redress 
it, are only one and the same with me, I took 
occasion, upon his lordship's desiring my opinion 
of a Chinese scroll, intended for the frame of a 
picture, to assure him, that a mandarine of China 
thought a minute acquaintance with such me- 
chanical trifles below his dignity. 

This reply raised the indignation of some, and 
the contempt of others : I could hear the names 
of Vandal, Goth, taste, polite arts, delicacy, and 
fire, repeated in tones of ridicule or resentment. 
But considering it was in vain to argue against 
people who had so much to say, without con- 
tradicting them, I begged leave to repeat a fairy 
tale. This request redoubled their laughter ; but 
not easily abashed at the raillery of boys, I per- 
sisted, observing that it would set the absurdity 
of placing our affections upon trifles, in the 
strongest point of view ; and adding, that it was 
hoped the moral would compensate for its stu- 
pidity. ' For heaven's sake,' cried the great man, 
washing his brush in water, 'let us have no 
morality at present ; if we must have a story, let 
it be without any moral.' I pretended not to 
hear; and while he handled the brush, proceeded 
as follows : — 

' In the kingdom of Bonbobbin, which, by the 
Chinese annals, appears to have flourished twenty 
thousand years ago, there reigned a prince, en- 
dowed with every accomplishment, which gene- 
rally distinguishes the sons of kings. His beauty 
was brighter than the sun. The sun, to which he 
was nearly related, would sometimes stop his 
course in order to look down and admire him. 

' His mind was not less perfect than his body : 
he knew all things without having ever read; 
philosophers, poets, and historians, submitted 
their works to his decision, and so penetrating 
was he, that he could tell the merit of a book by 
looking on the cover. He made epic poems, 
tragedies, and pastorals, with suprising facility; 
song, epigram, or rebus, was all one to him, 
though it was observed he could never finish an 
acrostic. In short, the fairy who presided at his 
birth, had endowed him with almost every per- 
fection, or what was just the same, his subjects 
were ready to acknowledge he possessed .them 
all; and, for his own part, he knew nothing to 
the contrary. A prince so accomplished received 
a name suitable to his merit ; and he was called 
Bonbenin-bonbobbin-bonbobbinet, which signifies 
Enlightener of the Sun. 

' As he was very powerful, and yet unmarried, 
all the neighbouring kings earnestly sought his 
alliance. Each sent his daughter, dressed out in 
the most magnificent manner, and with the most 
sumptuous retinue imaginable, in order to allure 
the prince ; so that at one time there were seen at 
his court not less than seven hundred foreign 
princesses of exquisite sentiment and beauty, 
each alone sufficient to make seven hundred 
ordinary men happy. . 

♦Distracted in such a variety, the generous 
Bonbenin, had he not been obliged by the laws of 
the empire to make choice of one, would very 
willingly have married them all, for none under- 
stood gallantry better. He spent numberless 
hours of solicitude, in endeavouring to determine 
whom he should choose ; one lady was possessed 
of every perfection, but he disliked her eye-brows ; 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



53 



nother was brighter than the morning star, but 
he disapproved her fong whang ; a third did not 
lay white enough on her cheek ; and a fourth did 
not sufficiently blacken her nails. At last, after 
numberless disappointments on the one side and 
the other, he made choice of the incomparable 
Nanhoa, queen of the scarlet dragons. 

' The preparations for the royal nuptials, or the 
envy of the disappointed ladies, need no descrip- 
tion ; both the one and the other were as great as 
they could be; the beautiful princess was con- 
ducted amidst admiring multitudes to the royal 
couch, where, after being divested of every en- 
cumbering ornament, she was placed in expect- 
ance of the youthful bridegroom, who did not 
keep her long in expectation. He came more 
cheerful than the morning ; and printing on her 
lips a burning kiss, the attendants took this as a 
proper signal to withdraw. 

'Perhaps I ought to have mentioned in the 
beginning, that, among several other qualifica- 
tions, the prince was fond of collecting and breed- 
ing mice, which being a harmless pastime, none 
of his counsellors thought proper to dissuade him 
from : he therefore kept a great variety of these 
pretty little animals, in the most beautiful cages, 
enriched with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, 
and other precious stones: thus he innocently 
spent four hours each day, in contemplating their 
innocent little pastimes. 

' But to proceed. The prince and princess were 
now in bed ; one with all the love and expecta- 
tion, the other with all the modesty and fear, 
which is natural to suppose; both willing, yet 
afraid to begin; When the prince happening to 
look towards the outside of the bed, perceived one 
of the most beautiful animals in the world, a 
white mouse with green eyes, playing about the 
floor and performing a hundred pretty tricks. He 
was already master of blue mice, red mice, and 
even white mice with yellow eyes; but a white 
mouse with green eyes was what he had long en- 
deavoured to possess: wherefore, leaping from 
bed with the utmost impatience and agility, the 
youthful prince attempted to seize the little 
charmer; but it was fled in a moment; for, alas 
the mouse was sent by a discontented princess, 
and was itself a fairy. 

' It is impossible to describe the agony of the 
prince upon this occasion. He sought round and 
round the room, even the bed where the princess 
lay was not exempt from the inquiry : he turned 
the princess on one side and the other, stripped 
her quite naked, but no mouse was to be found; 
the princess herself was kind enough to assist, 
but still to no purpose. 

'Alas!' cried the young prince in an agony, 
'how unhappy am I to be thus disappointed! 
never sure was so beautiful an animal seen! 
I would give half my kingdom and my princess 
to him that would find it.' The princess, though 
not much pleased with the latter part of his offer, 
endeavoured to comfort him as well as she could ; 
she let him know, that he had a hundred mice 
already, which ought to be at least sufficient to 
satisfy any philosopher like him. Though none 
of them had green eyes, yet he should learn to 
thank heaven that they had eyes. She told him 
(for she was a profound moralist) that incurable 
evils must be borne, that useless lamentations 
were vain, and that man was born to misfortunes ; 
Bhe even entreated him to return to bed, and she 



would endeavour to lull him on her bosom to 
repose ; but still the prince continued incon- 
solable; and regarding her with a stern air, for 
which his family was remarkable, he vowed never 
to sleep in the royal palace, or indulge himself in 
the innocent pleasures of matrimony, till he had 
found the white mouse with the green eyes. 

' Pr'ythee, colonel Leech,' cried his lordship, 
interrupting me, 'how do you like that nose, 
don't you think there is something of the manner 
of Rembrandt in it? A prince in all this agony 
for a white mouse, O ridiculous! — Don't you 
think, major Vampire, that eyebrow's tipped very 
prettily? But pray what are the green eyes to the 
purpose, except to amuse children ? I would give 
a thousand guineas to lay on the colouring of this 
cheek more smoothly. But I ask pardon; pray, 
sir, proceed.' 




sooner fpontn, man ner nery chariot appeared it 
the air, drawn by two snaila" 



LETTER XLIX. 



From the same. 



' Kings,' continued I, ' at that time were diJVerent 
from what theyare now ; they then never engaged 
their word for any thing which they did not rigo- 
rously intend to perform. This was the case ol 
Bonbenin, who continued all night to lament bis 
misfortunes to the princess, who echoed groan for 
groan. When morning came, he published an edict, 
offering half his kingdom and his princess to the 
person who should catch and bring him the white 
mouse with green eyes. 

' The edict was scarce published, when all the 
traps in the kingdom were baited with cheese; 
numberless mice were taken and destroyed, but 



! 54 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



still the muck wished-for mouse was not among 
the number. The privy council was assembled 
more than once to give their advice ; but all their 
deliberations came to nothing; even though there 
were two complete vermin-killers, and three pro- 
fessed rat catchers of the number. Frequent ad- 
dresses, as is usual on extraordinary occasions, 
were sent from all parts of the empire ; but though 
these promised well, though in them he received 
an assurance, that his faithful subjects would as- 
sist in his search with their lives and fortunes, 
yet with all their loyalty, they failed when the 
time came that the mouse was to be caught. ■ 

The prince, therefore, was resolved to go him- 
self in search, determined never to lie two nights 
in one place till he had found what he sought for. 
Thus quitting his palace without attendants, he 
set out upon his journey, and travelled through 
many a desert, and crossed many a river, high 
over hills, and down along vales, still restless, 
still inquiring wherever he came ; but no white 
mouse was to be found. 

' As one day, fatigued with his journey, he was 
shading himself from the heat of the mid-day sun, 
under the arching branches of a banana-tree, me- 
ditating en the object of his pursuit, he perceived 
an old woman, hideously deformed, approaching 
him ; by her stoop, and the wrinkles of her visage, 
she seemed at least five hundred years old ; and 
the spotted toad was not more freckled than was 
her skin. ' Ah! Prince Bonbenin-bonbobbin- 
bonbobbinet,' cried the creature, ' what has led 
you so many thousand miles from your own king- 
dom; what is it you look for; and what induces 
you to travel into the kingdom of the Emmets?' 
The prince was excessively complaisant, told her 
the whole story three times over: for she waa 
hard of hearing. ' Well,' says the old fairy, for 
such she was, ' I promise to put you in possession 
of the white mouse with green eyes, and that im- 
mediately too, upon one condition.' — ' One con- 
dition !' cried the prince, in rapture, ' name a 
thousand ; I shall undergo them all with pleasure.' 
— ' Nay,' interrupted the old fairy, ' I ask but one, 
and that not very mortifying neither; it is only, 
that you instantly consent to marry me.' 

' It is impossible to express the prince's con- 
fusion at this demand ; he loved the mouse, but 
he detested the bride; he hesitated; he desired 
time to think upon the proposal ; he would have 
been glad to consult his friends on such an occa- 
sion. ' Nay, nay,' cried the odious fairy, ' if you 
demur, I retract my promise ; I do not desire to 
force my favours on any man. Here, you my 
attendants', cried she, stamping with her foot, 
' let my machine be driven up ; Barbacela, queen 
of the Emmets, is not used to contemptuous treat- 
ment.' She had no sooner spoken, than her fiery 
chariot appeared in the air, drawn by two snails ; 
and she was just going to step in, when the prince 
reflected, that now or never was the time to be pos- 
sessed of the white mouse ; and quite forgetting 
his lawful princess Nanhoa, falling on his knees, 
he implored forgiveness for having rashly rejected 
so much beauty. This well-timed compliment 
instantly appeased the angry fairy. She affected 
a hideous leer of approbation; and taking the 
young prince by the hand, conducted him to a 
neighbouring church, where they were married 
together in a moment. As soon as the ceremony 
was performed, the prince, who was to the last 
degree desirous of seeing his favourite mouse re 



minded the bride of her promise. ' To confess a 
truth, my prince,' cried she, ' I myself am that 
very white mouse you saw on your wedding night 
in the royal apartment. I now, therefore, give you 
the choice, whether you would have me a mouse 
by day and a woman by night, or a mouse by night 
and a woman by day.' Though the prince was an 
excellent casuist, he was quite at a loss how to 
determine; but at last thought it most prudent 
to have recourse to a blue cat, that had followed 
him from his own dominions, and frequently 
amused him with its conversation, and assisted 
him with its advice ; in fact, this cat was no other 
than the faithful princess Nanhoa herself, who 
had shared with him all his hardships in this 
disguise. 

' By her instructions he was determined in his 
choice ; and returning to the old fairy, prudently 
observed, that as she must have been sensible he 
had married her only for the sake of what she had, 
and not for her personal qualifications, he thought 
it would, for several reasons, be most convenient, 
if she continued a woman by day, and appeared 
a mouse by night. 

' The old fairy was a good deal mortified at her 
husband's want of gallantry, though she was re- 
luctantly obliged to comply; the day was therefore 
spent in the most polite amusements; the gentle- 
men talked smut; and the ladies laughed, and 
were angry. At last the happy night drew near ; 
the blue cat still stuck by the side of its master, 
and even followed him to the bridal apartment. 
Barbacela entered the chamber, wearing a train of 
fifteen yards long, supported by porcupines, and 
all over beset with jewels, which served to render 
her more detestable. She was just stepping into 
bed to the prince, forgetting her promise, when 
he insisted upon seeing her in the shape of a 
mouse. She had promised, and no fairy can break 
her word ; wherefore, assuming the figure of the 
most beautiful mouse in the world, she skipped 
and played about with an infinity of amusement. 
The prince, in an agony of rapture, was desirous 
of seeing his pretty playfellow move a slow dance 
about the floor to his own singing; he began to 
sing, and the mouse immediately to perform with 
the most perfect knowledge of time, and the finest 
grace and greatest gravity imaginable; it only 
began, for Nanhoa, who had long waited for the 
opportunity in the shape of a cat, flew upon it in- 
stantly without remorse, and eating it up in the 
hundredth part of a moment, broke the charm, 
and then resumed her natural figure. 

' The prince now found, that he had all along 
been under the power of enchantment; that his I 
passion for the white mouse was entirely fictitious, 
and not the genuine complexion of his soul ; he 
now saw that his earnestness after mice was an il- 
liberal amusement, and much more becoming a rat- 
catcher than a prince All his meanness now stared 
him in the face; he begged the discreet princess's ! 
pardon a hundred times. The princess very rea- 
dily forgave him; and both returning to their 
palace in Bonbobbin, lived very happily together, 
and reigned many years, with all that wisdom, 
which, by the story, they appear to have been pos- 
sessed of. Perfectly convinced by their former 
adventures, that they who place their affections 
on trifles, at first for amusement, will find those 
trifles at last become their serious concern. Adieu. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



55 



LETTER L. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

Ask an Englishman what nation in the world en- 
joys most freedom, and he immediately answers, 
his own. Ask him, in what that freedom princi- 
pally consists, and he is instantly silent. This 
happy pre-eminence does not arise from the peo- 
ple's enjoying a larger share in legislation than 
elsewhere ; for, in this particular, several states 
in Europe excel them; nor does it arise from a 
greater exemption from taxes, for few countries 
pay more ; it does not proceed from their being 
restrained by fewer laws, for no people are bur- 
dened with so many ; nor does it particularly con- 
sist in the security of their property, for property 
is pretty well secured in every polite state of 
• Europe. 

How then are the English more free, for more 
free they certainly are, than the people of any 
other country, or under any other form of govern- 
ment whatever? Their freedom consists in their 
enjoying all the advantages of democracy, with 
this superior prerogative borrowed from monarchy, 
that the severity of their laws may be relaxed 
without endangering the constitution. 

In a monarchical state, in which the constitution 
is strongest, the laws may be relaxed, without 
danger; for though the people should be unani- 
mous in the breach of any one in particular, yet 
still there is an effective power superior to the 
people, capable of enforcing obedience, whenever 
it may be proper to inculcate the law, either to- 
wards the support or welfare of the community. 

But in all those governments where laws derive 
their sanction from the people alone, transgres- 
sions cannot be overlooked, without bringing the 
constitution into danger. They who transgress 
the law in such a case, are those who prescribe it ; 
by which means it loses not only its influence, but 
its sanction. In every republic the laws must be 
strong, because the constitution is feeble; they 
must resemble an Asiatic husband, who is justly 
jealous, because he knows himself impotent. 
Thus, in Holland, Switzerland, and Genoa, new 
laws are not frequently enacted, but the old ones 
are observed with unremitting severity. In such 
republics, therefore, the people are slaves to laws 
of their own making, little less than in unmixed 
monarchies, where they are slaves to the will of 
one, subject to frailties like themselves. 

In England, from a variety of happy accidents, 
their constitution is just strong enough, or, if you 
will, monarchical enough, to permit a relaxation 
of the severity of laws, and yet those laws still to 
remain sufficiently strong to govern the people. 
This is the most perfect state of civil liberty of 
which we can form an idea; here we see a greater 
number of laws than in any other country, while 
the people at the same time obey only such as are 
immediately conducive to the interests of society ; 
Beveral are unnoticed, many unknown ; some kept 
to be revived and enforced upon proper occasions, 
others left to grow obsolete, even without the ne- 
cessity of abrogation. 

Scarce any Englishman who does not, almost 
every day of his life, offend with impunity 
against some express law, and for which, in a 



certain conjuncture of circumstances, he would not 
receive punishment. Gaming-houses, preaching 
at prohibited places, assembled crowds, nocturnal 
amusements, public shows, and a hundred other 
instances, are forbid and frequented. These pro- 
hibitions are useful; though it be prudent in their 
magistrates, and happy for their people, that they 
are not enforced, and none but the venal or 
mercenary attempt to enforce them. 

The law in this case, like an indulgent parent, 
still keeps the rod, though the child is seldom 
corrected. Were those pardoned offences to rise 
into enormity, were they likely to obstruct the 
happiness of society, or endanger the state, it is 
then that justice would resume her terrors, and 
punish those faults she had so often overlooked 
with indulgence. It is to this ductility of the 
laws that an Englishman owes the freedom he 
enjoys superior to others in a more popular govern- 
ment; every step, therefore, the constitution takes 
towards a democratic form, every diminution of 
the legal anthority, is, in fact, a diminution of the 
subject's freedom; but every attempt to render 
the government more popular, not only impairs 
natural liberty, but even will at last dissolve the 
political constitution. 

Every popular government seems calculated to 
last only for a time ; it grows rigid with age, new 
laws are multiplying, and the old continue in 
force ; the subjects are oppressed, burdened with 
a multiplicity of legal injunctions ; there are none 
from whom to expect redress, and nothing but a 
strong convulsion in the state can vindicate them 
into former liberty. Thus the people of Rome, a 
few great ones excepted, found more real freedom 
under their emperors, though tyrants, than they 
had experienced in the old age of the common- 
wealth, in which their laws were become numerous 
and painful, in which new laws were every day 
enacting, and the old ones executed with rigour. 
They even refused to be reinstated in their former 
prerogatives upon an offer made them to this pur- 
pose : for they actually found emperors the only 
means of softening the rigours of their constitu- 
tion. 

The constitution of England is at present pos- 
sessed of the strength of its native oak, and the 
flexibility of the bending tamarisk ; but should the 
people at any time, with a mistaken zeal, pant 
after an imaginary freedom, and fancy that abridg- 
ing monarchy was increasing their privileges, 
they would be very much mistaken, since every 
jewel plucked from the crown of majesty would 
only be made use of as a bribe to corruption ; it 
might enrich the few who shared it among them, 
but would, in fact, impoverish the public. 

As the Roman senators, by slow and impercep- 
tible degrees, became masters of the people, yet 
still flattered them with a show of freedom, while 
themselves omy were free ; so it is possible for a 
body of men, while they stand up for their privi- 
leges, to grow into an exuberance of power them- 
selves, and the public become actually dependent, 
while some of its individuals only governed. 

If then, my friend, there should in this country 
ever be on the throne a king, who, through good- 
nature or age, should give up the smallest part of 
his prerogative to the people; if there should 

come a minister of merit and popularity But I 

have room for no more. Adieu. 



56 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



LETTER II. 



To the same. 



As I was yesterday seated at breakfast over a 
pensive dish of tea, my meditations were inter- 
rupted by my old friend and companion, who 
introduced a stranger, dressed pretty much like 
himself. The gentleman made several apologies 
for his visit, begged of me to impute his intrusion 
to the sincerity of his respect, and the warmth of 
his curiosity. 

As I am very suspicious of my company, when 
I find them very civil without any apparent reason, 
I answered the stranger's caresses at first with 
reserve; which my friend perceiving, instantly 
let me into my visitant's trade and character, 
asking Mr. Fudge, whether he had lately pub- 
lished any thing new ? I now conjectured that my 
guest was no other than a bookseller, and his 
answer confirmed my suspicions. 

' Excuse me, sir,' says he, ' this is not the 
season; books have their time as well as cucum- 
bers. I would no more bring out a new work in 
summer, than I would sell pork in the dog-days. 
Nothing in my way goes oft" in summer, except 
very hght goods indeed. A review, a magazine, 
or a session's-paper, may amuse a summer- 
reader ; iiut all our stock of value we reserve for 
a spring and winter trade.' — ' I must confess, sir,' 
6ays I, 'a curiosity to know what you call a 
valuable stock, which can only bear a winter 
perusal. — ' Sir,' replied the bookseller, 'it is not 
my way to cry up my own goods; but without 
exaggeration I will venture to show with any of 
the trade; my books at least have the peculiar 
advantage of being always new ; and it is my way 
to clear off my old to the trunk -makers every 
season. I have ten new title-pages now about 
me, which only want books to be added to make 
them the finest things in nature. Others may 
pretend to direct the vulgar ; but that is not my 
way; I always let the vulgar direct me: wherever 
popular clamour arises, I always echo the million. 
For instance, should the people in general say 
that such a man is a rogue, I instantly give orders 
to set him down in print a villain: thus every 
man buys the book, not to learn new sentiments, 
but to have the pleasure of seeing his own re- 
flected.'—' But, sir,' interrupted I, ' you speak as 
if you yourself wrote the books you published; 
may I be so bold as to ask a sight of those in- 
tended publications which are shortly to surprise 
the world !'— ' As to that, sir,' replied the talkative 
bookseller, 'I only draw out the plans myself; 
and though I am very cautious of communicating 
them to any, yet, as in the end I have a favour to 
ask, you shall see a few of them. Here, sir, here 
they are ; diamonds of the first water, I assure 
you. Imprimis, a translation of several medical 
precepts for the use of such physicians as do not 
understand Latin. Item, the young clergyman's 
art of placing patches regularly, with a disserta- 
tion on the different manners of smiling without 
distorting the face. Item, the whole art of love 
made perfectly easy, by a broker of 'Change- 
Alley. Item, the proper manner of cutting black- 
lead pencils, and making crayons, by the .right 
hon. the earl of * * *. Item, the muster-master- 
general, or the review of reviews—' ' Sir,' cried 
I, interrupting him, ' my curiosity with regard to 



title-pages is satisfied; I should be glad to see 
some longer manuscript; a history, or an epic 
poem.' — ' Bless me,' cries the man of industry, 
' now you speak of an epic poem, you shall see an 
excellent farce. Here it is ; dip into it where you 
will, it will be found replete with true modern 
humour. Strokes, sir; it is filled with strokes of 
wit and satire in every line.' — ' Do you call these 
dashes of the pen strokes,' replied I, ' for I must 
confess I can see no other?' — 'And pray, sir,' re- 
turned he, ' what do you call them ? Do you see 
any thing good now-a-days that is not filled with 
strokes — and dashes ? — Sir, a well placed dash 
makes half the wit of our writers of modern 
humour. I bought a piece last season that had 
no other merit upon earth than nine hundred and 
ninety-five breaks, seventy-two ha-ha's, three good 
things, and a garter. And yet it played off, and 
bounced, and cracked, and made more sport than 
a fire-work.' — ' I fancy then, sir, you were a con- 
siderable gainer V — 'It must be owned the piece 
did pay; but upon the whole I cannot much boast 
of last winter's success; I gained by two murders, 
but then I lost by an ill-timed charity sermon. I 
was a considerable sufferer by my Direct Road to 
an Estate ; but then the Infernal Guide brought 
me up again. Ah, sir, that was a piece touched 
off by the hand of a master, filled with good things 
from one end to the other. The author had no- 
thing but the jest in view ; no dull moral lurking 
beneath, nor ill-natured satire to sour the reader's 
good humour; he wisely considered, that moral 
and humour at the same time, were quite over- 
doing the business.' — ' To what purpose was the 
book then published?' cried I. — 'Sir, the book 
was published in order to be sold ; and no book 
sold better, except the criticisms upon it, which 
came out soon after. Of all kinds of writings 
that goes off best at present; and I generally 
fasten a criticism upon every selling book that is- 
■ published. 

'I once had an author who never left the least 
i opening for the critics; close was the word; 
always very right, and very dull; ever on the 
same side of an argument ; yet with all his quali- 
fications, incapable of coming into favour. I soon 
perceived that his bent was for criticism ; and as 
he was good for nothing else, supplied him with 
pens and paper, and planted him at the beginning 
of every month as a censor on the works of others. 
In short, I found him a treasure; no merit could 
escape him : but what is most remarkable of all, 
he ever wrote best and bitterest when drunk.' — 
' But are there not some works,' interrupted I, 
that, from the very manner of their composition, 
must be exempt from criticism; particularly such 
as profess to disregard its laws V — ' There is no 
work whatsoever but he can criticise,' replied the 
bookseller ; ' even though you wrote in Chinese 
he would have a pluck at you. Suppose you 
should take it into your head to publish a book, 
let it be a volume of Chinese letters, for instance ; 
write how you will, he shall show the world you 
could have written better. Should you, with the 
most local exactness, stick to the manners and 
customs of the country from whence you came; 
should you confine yourself to the narrow limits 
of eastern knowledge, and be perfectly simple, and 
perfectly natural, he has then the strongest reason 
to exclaim. He may, with a sneer, send you back 
to China for readers. He may observe, that after 
the first or second letter the iteration of the same 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



57 



simplicity is insupportably tedious ; but the worst 
cf all is, the public in such a case will anticipate 
his censures, and leave you, with all your unin- 
structed simplicity, to be mauled at discretion.' 

1 Yes,' cried I ; ' but in order to avoid his indig- 
nation, and what I should fear more, that of the 
public, I would, in such a case, write with all the 
knowledge I was master of. As I am not pos- 
sessed of much learning, at least I would not sup- 
press what little I had ; nor would I appear more 
stupid than nature has made me.' — ' Here, then, 
cries the bookseller, ' we should have you entirely 
in our power ; unnatural, uneastern ; quite out of 
character; erroneously sensible; would be the 
whole cry. Sir, we should then hunt you down 
like a rat.' — ' Head of my father !' said I, ' sure 
there are but two Avays, the door must either be 
shut, or it must be open. I must either he natural 
or unnatural.' — ' Be what you will, we shall 
criticise you,' returned the bookseller, ' and prove 
you a dunce in spite of your teeth. But, sir, it is 
time that I should come to business. I have just 
now in the press a History of China ; and, if you 
will but put your name to it as the author, I shall 
repay the obligation with gratitude.' — ' What, sir,' 
replied I, put my name to a work which I have 
not written ! Never while I retain a proper 
respect for the public and myself.' The bluntness 
of my reply quite abated the ardour of the book- 
seller's conversation ; and, after half an hours 
disagreeable reserve, he, with some ceremony, 
took his leave and withdrew. Adieu. 



LETTER LII. 

To the same. 

In all other countries, my dear Fum Hoam, the 
rich are distinguished by their dress. In Persia, 
China, and the most part of Europe, those who 
are possessed of much gold and silver, put some 
of it upon their clothes; but in England, those 
who carry much upon their clothes, are remarked 
for having but little in their pockets. A tawdry 
outside is regarded as a badge of poverty, and 
those who can sit at home, and gloat over their 
thousands in silent satisfaction, are generally 
found to do it in plain clothes. 

This diversity of thinking from the rest of the 
world which prevails here, I was at first at a loss 
to account for ; but am since informed, that it was 
introduced by an intercourse between them and 
their neighbours, the French; who, whenever they 
came in order to pay those islanders a visit, were 
generally very well dressed and very poor, daubed 
with lace, but all the gilding on the outside. By 
this means, laced clothes have been brought into 
such contempt, that at present even their man- 
darines are ashamed of finery. 

I must own myself a convert to English sim- 
plicity; I am no more for ostentation of wealth 
than of learning; the person who in company 
should pretend to be wiser than others, I am apt 
to regard as illiterate and ill-bred; the person 
whose clothes are extremely fine, I am too apt to 
consider as not being possessed of any superiority 
of fortune, but resembling those Indians who were 



found to wear all the gold they have in the world 
in a bob at the nose. 

I was lately introduced into a company of the 
best dressed men I have seen since my arrival. 
Upon entering the room, I was struck with awe 
at the grandeur of the different dresses. ' That 
personage,' thought I, 'in blue and gold, must be 
some emperor's son ; that, in green and silver, a 
prince of the blood; he, in embroidered scarlet, a 
prime minister; all first-rate noblemen, I suppose, 
and well looking noblemen too.' I sat for some 
time with that uneasiness which conscious in- 
feriority produces in the ingenuous mind, all at- 
tention to their discourse. However, I found 
their conversation more vulgar than I could have 
expected from personages of such distinction. 
• If these,' thought I to myself, ' be princes, they 
are the most stupid princes I have ever conversed 
with.' Yet still I continued to venerate their 
dress; for dress has a kind of mechanical in- 
fluence on the mind. 

My friend in black, indeed, did not behave with 
the same deference, but contradicted the finest of 
them all in the most peremptory tones of con- 
tempt. But I had scarcely time to wonder at the 
imprudence of his conduct, when I found occasion 
to be equally surprised at the absurdity of theirs ; 
for, upon the entry of a middle-aged man, dressed 
in a cap, dirty shirt, and boots, the whole circle 
seemed diminished of their former importance, 
and contended who should be first to pay their 
obeisance to the stranger. They somewhat re- 
sembled a circle of Kalmucs offering incense to a 
bear. 

Eager to know the cause of so mtfch seeming 
contradiction, I whispered my friend out of the 
room, and found that the august company con- 
sisted of no other than a dancing master, two 
fiddlers, and a third-rate actor, all assembled in 
order to make a set at country dances ; and the 
middle-aged gentleman whom I saw enter, Avas a 
squire from the country, and desirous of learning 
the new manner of footing, and smoothing up the 
rudiments of his rural minuet. 

I was no longer surprised at the authority 
which my friend assumed among them; nay, was 
even displeased (pardon my eastern education) 
that he had not kicked every creature of them 
down stairs. 'What,' said I, 'shall a set of such 
paltry fellows dress themselves up like sons of 
kings, and claim even the transitory respect of 
half an hour! There should be some law to 
restrain so manifest a breach of privilege; they 
should go from house to house, as in China, with 
the instruments of their profession strung round 
their necks ; by this means we might be able to 
distinguish, and treat them in a style of becoming 
contempt.' — ' Hold, my friend,' replied my com- 
panion, ' were your reformation to take place, as 
dancing masters and fiddlers now mimic gentle- 
men in appearance, we should then find our fine 
gentlemen conforming to theirs. A beau might 
be introduced to a lady of fashion with a fiddle- 
case hanging at his neck by a red ribbon ; and, 
instead of a cane, might carry a fiddle-stick. 
Though to be as dull as a first-rate dancing 
master might be used with proverbial justice; 
yet, dull as he is, many a fine gentleman sets him 
up as the proper standard of politeness; copies 
not only the pert vivacity of his air, but the flat 
insipidity of his conversation. In short, if you 
make a law against dancing masters imitating the 



58 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



fine gentleman,- you should with as much reason 
enact, that no fine gentleman shall imitate the 
dancing master.' 

After I had left my friend, I made towards 
home, reflecting as I went upon the difficulty of 
distinguishing men by their appearance. Invited, 
however, by the freshness of the evening, I did 
not return directly, but went to ruminate on what 
had passed in a public garden belonging to the 
city. Here, as I sat upon one of the benches, and 
felt the pleasing sympathy which nature in bloom 
inspires, a disconsolate figure, who sat on the 
other end of the seat, seemed no way. to enjoy the 
serenity of the season. • 

His dress was miserable beyond description ; a 
thread-bare coat of the rudest materials ; a shirt, 
though clean, yet extremely coarse; hair that 
seemed to have been long unconscious of the 
comb; and all the rest of his equipage impressed 
with the marks of genuine poverty. 

As he continued to sigh and testify every symp- 
tom of despair, I was naturally led, from a motive 
of humanity, to offer comfort and assistance. You 
know my heart ; and that all who are miserable 
may claim a place there. The pensive stranger 
at first declined any conversation; but at last 
perceiving a peculiarity in my accent and manner 
of thinking, he began to unfold himself by 



I now found that he was not so very miserable 
as he at first appeared ; upon my offering him a 
small piece of money, he refused my favour, yet 
without appearing displeased at my intended ge- 
nerosity. It is true, he sometimes interrupted 
the conversation with a sigh, and talked patheti- 
cally of neglected merit; yet still I could perceive 
a serenity in his countenance, that, upon a closer 
Inspection, bespoke inward content. 

Upon a pause in the conversation, I was going 
to take my leave, when he begged I would favour 
him with my company home to supper. I was 
surprised at such a demand from a person of his 
appearance; but willing to indulge curiosity, I 
accepted his invitation; and though I felt some 
repugnance at being seen with one who appeared 
so very wretched, went along with seeming 
alacrity. , 

Still, as he approached nearer home, his good 
humour proportionably seemed to increase. At 
last he stopped, not at the gate of a hovel, but of 
a magnificent palace ! When I cast my eyes upon 
all the sumptuous elegance which every where 
presented upon entering, and then when I looked 
at my seeming miserable conductor, I could scarce 
think that all this finery belonged to him; yet in 
fact it did. Numerous servants ran through the 
apartments with silent assiduity; several ladies 
of beauty, and magnificently dressed, came to 
welcome his return ; a most elegant supper was 
provided; in short, I found the person, whom a 
little before I had sincerely pitied, to be in reality 
a most refined epicure: — one who courted con- 
tempt abroad, in order to feel with keener gust 
the pleasure of pre-eminence at home. Adieu. 



LETTER LIII. 

From the same. 

Hott often have we admired the eloquence of 
Europe! that strength of thinking, that delicacy 



of imagination, even beyond tne efforts ol the 
Chinese themselves. How were we enraptured 
with those bold figures which sent every sen- 
timent with force to the heart! how have we 
spent whole days together, in learning those arts 
by which European writers got within the pas- 
sions, and led the reader as if by enchantment ! 

But though we have learned most of the 
rhetorical figures of the last age, yet there seems 
to be one or two of great use here, which have not 
yet travelled to China. The figures I mean are 
called Bawdry and Pertness : none are more 
fashionable ; none so sure of admirers ; they are 
of such a nature, that the merest blockhead, by a 
proper use of them, shall have the reputation of a 
wit ; they lie level to the meanest capacities, and 
address those passions which all have, or would 
be ashamed to disown. 

It has been observed, and I believe with some 
truth, that it is very difficult for a dunce to obtain 
the reputation of a wit; yet by the assistance of 
the figure bawdry,' this may be easily effected, and 
a bawdry blockhead often passes for a fellow of 
smart parts and pretensions. Every object in 
nature helps the jokes forward, without scarce 
any effort of the imagination. If a lady stands, 
something very good may be said' upon that ; if 
she happens to fall, with the help of a little 
fashionable pruriency, there are forty sly things 
ready on the occasion. But a prurient jest has 
always been found to give most pleasure to a few 
old gentlemen, who being in some measure dead 
to their sensations, feel the force of the allusion 
with double violence on the organs of risibility. 

An author who writes in this manner is gene- 
rally sure, therefore, of having the very old and 
the impotent among his admirers ; for these he 
may properly be said ,to write, and from these he 
ought to expect his reward, his works being often 
a very proper succedaneum to cantharides, or an 
asafoetida pill. His pen should be considered in 
the same light as the squirt of an apothecary, 
both being directed to the same generous end. 

But though this manner of writing be perfectly 
adapted to the taste of gentlemen and ladies of 
fashion here, yet still it deserves greater praise in 
being equally suited to the most vulgar apprehen- 
sions. The very ladies and gentlemen of Benin, 
or Cafraria, are in this respect tolerably polite, 
and might relish a prurient joke of this kind with 
critical propriety; probably, too, with higher 
gust, as they wear neither breeches nor petticoats 
to intercept the application. 

It is certain, I never could have thought the 
ladies here, biassed as they are by education, ca- 
pable at once of bravely throwing off their preju- 
dices, and not only applauding books in which 
this figure makes the only merit, but even adopt- 
ing it in their own conversation. Yet so it is, 
the pretty innocents now carry those books openly 
in their hands which formerly were hid under the 
cushion; they now lisp their double meanings 
with so much grace, and talk over the raptures 
they bestow with such little reserve, that I am 
sometimes reminded of a custom among the en- 
tertainers in China, who think it a piece of neces- 
sary breeding to whet the appetites of their guests, 
by letting them smell dinner in the kitchen be- 
fore it is served up to table. 

The veneration we have for many things, en- 
tirely proceeds from their being carefully con- 
cealed. Were the idolatrous Tartar permitted to 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



59 



lift the veil which keeps his idol from view, it 
might be a certain method to cure his future su- 
perstition ; with what a noble spirit of freedom, 
therefore, must that writer be possessed, who 
bravely paints things as they are, who lifts the 
veil of modesty, who displays the most hidden re- 
cesses of the temple, and shows the erring people, 
that the object of their views is either perhaps a 
mouse or a monkey ? 

However, though this figure be at present so 
much in fashion ; though the professors of it are 
so much caressed by the great, those perfect 
judges of literary excellence ; yet it is confessed 
to be only a revival of what was once fashionable 
here before. There was a time, when, by this 
very manner of writing, the gentle Tom Durfey, 
as I read in English authors, acquired his great 
reputation, and became the favourite of a king. 

The works of this original genius, though they 
never travelled abroad to China, and scarce have 
reached posterity at home, were once found upon 
every fashionable toilet, and made the subject of 
polite, I mean very polite, conversation. ' Has 
your Grace seen Mr. Durfey's last new thing, the 
Oylet-Hole? A most facetious piece. Sure, my 
Lord, all the world must have seen it? Durfey is 
certainly the most comical creature alive. It is 
impossible to read his things and live. Was there 
ever any thing so natural and pretty, as when the 
Squire and Bridget meet in the cellar ? And then 
the difficulties they both find in broaching the 
beer-barrel are so arch and so ingenious ! We 
have certainly nothing of this kind in the lan- 
guage.' Jn this manner they spoke then, and in 
this mannei." they speak now; for though the suc- 
cessor of Durfey does not excel him in wit, 
the world must confess he outdoes him in ob- 
scenity 

There are several very dull fellows, who, by a 
few mechanical helps, sometimes learn to become 
extremely brilliant and pleasing; with a little 
dexterity in the management of the eye-brows, 
fingers, and nose. By imitating a cat, a sow, and 
a pig ; by a loud laugh and a slap on the shoulder, 
the most ignorant are furnished out for conversa- 
tion. But the writer finds it impossible to throw 
his winks, his shrugs, or his attitudes, upon pa- 
per ; he may borrow some assistance, indeed, by 
printing his face at the title-page; but without 
wit, to pass for a man of ingenuity, no other me- 
chanical help but downright obscenity will suffice. 
By speaking to some peculiar sensations, we are 
always sure of exciting laughter ; for the jest does 
not lie in the writer, but in the subject. 

But Bawdry is often helped on by another 
figure, called Pertness ; andfew indeed are found 
to excel in one that are not possessed of the other. 
As in common conversation, the best way to 
make the audience laugh, is by first laughing 
yourself; so in writing, the properest manner is 
to show an attempt at humour which will pass 
upon most for humour in reality. To effect this, 
readers must be treated with the most perfect 
familiarity : in one page the author is to make 
them a low bow, and in the next to pull them by 
the nose ; he must talk in riddles, and then send 
them to bed, in order to dream for the solution. 
He must speak of himself and his chapters, and 
his manner, and what he would be at, and his own 
importance, and his mother's importance, with 
the most unpitying prolixity : now and then tes- 
tifying his contempt for all but for himself; smil- 



ing without a jest, and without Avit possessing i 
vivacity. Adieu. 



LETTER LIT. 
From the same. 

Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of 
gay company, and take every opportunity of thus 
dismissing the mind from duty. From this mo- 
tive I am often found in the centre of a crowd; 
and wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a 
purchaser. In those places, without being re- 
marked by any, I join in whatever goes forward, 
work my passion into a similitude of frivolous 
earnestness, shout as they shout, and condemn as 
they happen to disapprove. A mind thus sunk 
for a while below its natural standard, is qualified 
for stronger flights, as those first retire who 
would spring forward with greater vigour. 

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my 
friend and I lately went to gaze upon the com- 
pany in one of the public walks near the city. 
Here we sauntered together for some time, either 
praising the beauty of such as were handsome, or 
the dresses of such as had nothing else to recom- 
mend them. We had gone thus deliberately for- 
ward for some time, when stopping on a sudden, 
my friend caught me by the elbow, and led me 
out of the public walk ; I could perceive by the 
quickness of his pace, and by his frequently look- 
ing behind, that he was attempting to avoid some- 
body who followed ; we now turned to the right, 
then to the left : as we went forward, he still went 
faster, yet in vain : the person whom he attempt- 
ed to escape hunted us through every doubling, 
and gained upon us each moment ; so that at last 
we fairly stood still, resolving to face what we 
oould not avoid. 

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with 
all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. 'My 
dear Drybone,' cries he, shaking my friend's 
hand, ' where have you been hiding this half a 
century? Positively I had fancied you were gone 
down to cultivate matrimony and your estate in 
the country.' During the reply, I had an oppor- 
tunity of surveying the appearance of our new 
companion : his hat was pinched up with peculiar 
smartness ; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp ; 
round his neck he wore a broad black ribbon, and 
in his bosom a buckle studded with glass; his 
coat was trimmed with tarnished twist ; he wore 
by his side a sword with a black hilt ; and his 
stockings of silk, though newly washed, were 
grown yellow by long service. I was so much en- 
gaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I at- 
tended only to the latter part of my friend's reply, 
in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste ! 
of his clothes, and the bloom in his countenance. 
' Psha, psha, Will,' cried the figure, ' no more of 
that if you love me ; you know, I hate flattery, 
on my soul I do ; and yet to be sure, an intimacy 
with the great will improve one's appearance, and 
a course of venison will fatten ; and yet, faith, I j 
despise the great as much as you do ; but there j 

are a great many d d honest fellows among j 

them ; and we must not quarrel with one half be- 
cause the other wants weeding. If they were all 
such as my Lord Muddler, one of the most good- i 
natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I 
should myself be among the number of their ad« ! 
mirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess j 



60 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



of Piccadilly's; my lord was there. Ned, says he 
to me, Ned, says he, I will hold gold to silver I 
can tell where you were poaching last night. 
Poaching, my lord, says I ; faith you have missed 
already ; for I staid at home and let the girls 
poach for me, that's my way ; I take a fine woman 
as some animals do their prey ; stand still and 
swoop, they fall into my mouth.' 

' Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,' cried my 
companion, with looks of infinite pity ; ' I hope 
your fortune is as much improved as your under- 
standing in such company V — ' Improved,' re- 
plied the other, ' you shall know— but let it go no 
farther— a great secret, — five hundred a-year to 
begin with. — My lord's word of honour for it — his 
lordship took me down in his own chariot yester- 
day, and we had a tete-d-tete dinner in the coun- 
try, where we talked of nothing else.' — ' I fancy, 
you forgot, sir,' cried I, ' you told us but this 
moment of your dining yesterday in town.' — ' Did 
I say so V replied he, coolly, ' to be sure if I said 
so, it was so. Dined in town ; egad, now I do re- 
member I did dine in town ; but I dined in the 
country too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat 
two dinners. By the bye, I am grown as nice as 
the devil in my eating. I'll tell you a pleasant 
affair about that ; we were a select party of us to 
dine at lady Grogram's, an affected piece; but let 
it go no farther, — a secret; well, there happened 
to be no asafoetida in the sauce to a turkey ; upon 
which, says I, I'll hold a thousand guineas, and 
say done first, that — But, dear Drybone, you are 
an honest creature, lend me half-a-crown for a 
minute or two, or so, just till — But, harkee, ask 
me for it the next time we meet, or it may be 
twenty to one but I forget to pay you.' 

When he left us, our conversation naturally 
turned upon so extraordinary a character. ' His 
very dress,' cries my friend, ' is not less extraor- 
dinary than his conduct. If you meet him this 
day, you find him in rags ; if the next, in embroi- 
dery. With those persons of distinction of whom 
he talks so familiarly, he has scarcely a coffee- 
house acquaintance. However, both for the in- 
terest of society, and perhaps for his own, heaven 
has made him poor ; and while all the world per- 
ceive his wants, he fancies them concealed from 
every eye. An agreeable companion, because he 
understands flattery; and all must be pleased 
with the first part of his conversation, though all 
are sure of its ending with a demand on their 
purse. While his youth countenances the levity 
of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious 
subsistence ; but when age comes on, the gravity 
of which, is incompatible with buffoonery, then 
will he find himself forsaken by all. Condemned, 
in the decline of life, to hang upon some rich fa- 
mily whom he once despised, there to undergo all 
the ingenuity of studied contempt, to be employ- 
ed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear 
to fright the children into obedience. 



LETTER LV. 

To the same. 

I am apt to fancy I have contracted a new ac- 
quaintance, whom it will be no easy matter to 
shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook me 
again in one of the public walks, and slapping me 
on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the 



most perfect familiarity. His dress was the same 
as usual, except that he had more powder in his 
hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple specta- 
cles, and his hat under his arm. As I knew him 
to be a harmless, amusing little being, I could 
not return his smiles with any degree of severity ; 
so we walked forward, on terms of the utmost 
intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the 
usual topics preliminary to particular conversa- 
tion. 

The oddities that marked his character, how- 
ever, soon began to appear ; he bowed to several 
well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of re- 
turning the compliment, appeared perfect stran- 
gers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, 
seeming to take memorandums before all the 
company, with much importance and assiduity. 
In this manner he led me through the length of 
the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and 
fancying myself laughed at no less than him by 
every spectator. 

When we were got to the end of our procession, 
' Blast me !' cries he, with an air of vivacity, ' I 
never saw the park so thin in my life before ; 
there's no company at all to-day. Not a single 
face to be seen.' — ' No company,' interrupted I, 
peevishly ; ' no company where there is such a 
crowd ! Why man, there's too much. What are 
the thousands that have been laughing at us, but 
company V — ' Lard, my dear, returned he, with 
the utmost good humour, ' you seem immensely 
chagrined ; but, blast me, when the world laughs 
at me, I laugh at the world, and so we are even. 
My lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, 
sometimes make a party at being ridiculous ; and 
SO we say and do a thousand things for the joke's 
sake. But I see you are grave, and if you are for 
a fine grave sentimental companion, you shall 
dine with me and my wife to-day, I must insist 
on't ; I'll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of 
as elegant qualifications as any in nature ; she 
was bred, but that's between ourselves, under the 
inspection of the Countess of Allnight. A charm- 
ing body of voice, but no more of that, she will 
give us a song. You shall see my little girl, too, 
Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty 
creature ; I design her for my lord Drumstick's 
eldest son ; but that's in friendship, let it go no 
farther ; she's but six years old, and yet she walks 
a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely al- 
ready ; I intend she shall be as perfect as possible 
in every accomplishment. In the first place, I 
will make her a scholar ; I will teach her Greek 
myself, and learn that language purposely to in- 
struct her ; but let that be a secret.' . 

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he 
took me by the arm and hauled me along. We 
passed through many dark alleys and winding 
ways ; for, from some motives to me unknown, 
he seemed to have a particular aversion to every 
frequented street ; at last, however, we got to the 
door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of 
the town, where he informed me, he chose to re- 
side for the benefit of the air. 

We entered the lower door, which ever seemed 
to lie most hospitably open; and I began to ascend 
an old and creaking stair-case, when, as he mount- 
ed to show me the way, he demanded whether I 
delighted in prospects ; to which answering in the 
affirmative, ' Then,' says he, ' I shall show you 
one of the most charming in the world, out of my 
window : we shall see the ships sailing, and the 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



61 



whole country for twenty miles round," tip top, 
quite high. My lord Swamp would give ten 
thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I some- 
times pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep 
my prospects at home, that my friends may visit 
me the oftener.' 

By this time we were arrived as high as the 
stairs would permit us to ascend, till we came to 
what he was facetiously pleased to call the first 
floor down the chimney; and knocking at the 
door, a voice from within demanded, 'Who's 
there V My conductor answered, that it was he. 
But this not satisfying the querist, the voice 
again repeated the demand ; to which he answered 
louder than before ; and now the door was opened 
by an old woman with cautious reluctance. 

When we were got in, he welcomed me to his 
house with great ceremony ; and, turning to the 
old woman, asked where was her lady. * Good 
troth,' replied she, in a peculiar dialect,' ' she's 
washing your twa shirts at the next door, because 
they have taken an oath against lending out the 
tub any longer.' — ' My two shirts,' cried he, in a 
tone that faultered with confusion, ' what does the 
idiot mean?' — ' I ken what I mean, well enough,' 
replied the other, ' she's washing your twa shirts 
next door, because — ' 'Fire and fury, no more 
of thy stupid explanations !' cried he, ' go and in- 
form her we have got company. Were that Scotch 
hag to be for ever in my family, she would never 
learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous 
accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of 
breeding or high life ; and yet it is very surprising 
too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend 
of mine from the Highlands, one of the politest 
men in the world; but that's a secret.' 

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs's arrival, 
during which interval I had a full opportunity of 
surveying the chamber and all its furniture; 
which consisted of four chairs with old wrought 
bottoms, that he assured me were his wife's em- 
broidery; a square table that had been once 
japanned, a cradle in one corner, a lumbering 
cabinet in the other ; a broken shepherdess, and a 
mandarine without a head, were stuck over the 
chimney; and round the walls several paltry 
unframed pictures,which he observed were all his 
own drawing : • What do you think, sir, of that 
head in the corner, done in the manner of Gri- 
soni? There's the true keeping in it ; it is my own 
face, and though there happens to be no likeness, 
a countess offered me a hundred for its fellow; I 
refused her, for, hang it, that would be mecha- 
nical, you know.' 

- The wife at last made her appearance, at once a 
slattern and a coquette ; much emaciated, but still 
carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty 
apologies for being seen in such an odious disha- 
bille ; but hoped to be excused, as she had staid 
out all night at the gardens with the countess, 
who was excessively fond of the horns. ' And, 
indeed, my dear,' added she, turning to her hus- 
band, ' his lordship drank your health in a bum- 
per.' — ' Poor Jack,' cries he, • a dear good-natured 
creature, I know he loves me; but I hope, my 
dear, you have given orders for dinner; you need 
make no great preparations neither, there are but 
three of us, something elegant and little will do ; 
a turbot, an ortolan, or a—' • Or what do you 
think, my dear,' interrupts the wife, ' of a nice 
pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed 
with a little of my sauce?'—' The very thing,' re- 



plies he, ' it will eat best with some smaTt bottled 
beer ; but be sure to let's have the sauce his grace 
was so fond of. I hate your immense loads o* 
meat, that is country all over; extreme disgusting 
to those who are in the least acquainted with high 
life. 

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and 
my appetite to increase; the company of fools may 
at first make us smile, but at last never fails of 
rendering us melancholy. I therefore pretended 
to recollect a prior engagement, and after having 
shown my respect to the house, according to the 
fashion of the English, by giving the old servant 
a piece of money at the door, I took my leave ; 
Mr. Tibbs assuring me, that dinner, if I staid, 
would be ready at least in less than two hours. 



LETTER LVI. 

From Fum Hoam, to Lien Chi Altangi, the discontented 
wanderer. 

The distant sounds of music that catch new sweet- 
ness as they vibrate through the long drawn val- 
ley, are not more pleasing to the ear than the 
tidings of a far distant friend. 

I have just received two hundred of thy letters 
by the Russian caravan, descriptive of the man- 
ners of Europe. You have left it to geographers 
to determine the size of their mountains, and 
extent of their lakes, seeming only employed in 
discovering the genius, the government, and dis- 
position, of the people. 

In those letters I perceive a journal of the ope- 
rations of your mind upon whatever occurs, rather 
than a detail of your travels from one building to 
another ; of your taking a draught of this ruin, or 
that obelisk; of paying so many tomans for this 
commodity, or laying up a proper store for the 
passage of some new wilderness. 

From your account of Russia I learn, that this 
nation is again relaxing into pristine barbarity, 
that its great Emperor wanted a life of a hundred 
years more to bring about his vast design. A 
savage people may be resembled to their own 
forest ; a few years are sufficient to clear away the 
obstructions to agriculture; but it requires many 
ere the ground acquires a proper degree of fer- 
tility. The Russians, attached to their ancient 
prejudices, again renew their hatred to strangers, 
and indulge every former brutal excess. So true 
it is, that the revolutions of wisdom are slow and 
difficult ; the revolutions of folly or ambition pre- 
cipitate and easy. ' We are not to be astonished, 
says Confucius,* ' that the wise walk more slowly 
in their road to virtue, than fools in their passage 
to vice; since passion drags us along, while 
wisdom only points out the way.' 

The German empire, the remnant of the ma- 
jesty of ancient Rome, appears from your account 
on the eve of dissolution. The members of its 
vast body want every tie of government to unite 
them, and seem feebly held together only by their 
respect for an ancient Institution. The very name 
of country and countrymen, which in other nations 
makes one of the strongest bonds of government, 
has been here for some time laid aside ; each of its 

* Though this fine maxim be not found in the Latin 
edition of the Morals of Confucius, yet we find it ascribed 
to him by Le Comte. Etat presente d« la Chine. Vol. I. 

p. 348. 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



62 



inhabitants seeming more proud of being called 
from the petty state which gives him birth, than 
by the well known title of German. 

This government may be regarded in the light 
of a severe master, and a feeble opponent. The 
states which are now subject to the laws of the 
empire, are only watching a proper occasion to 
fling ofF the yoke : and those which are become 
too powerful to be compelled to obedience, now 
begin to think of dictating in their turn. The 
struggles in this state are therefore not in order 
to preserve, but to destroy, the ancient constitu- 
tion ; if one side succeeds, the government must 
become despotic ; if the other, several states will 
subsist without even nominal subordination ; but 
in either case the Germanic constitution will be 
no more. 

Sweden, on the contrary, though now seemingly 
a strenuous asserter of its liberties, is probably 
only hastening on to despotism. Their senators, 
while they pretend to vindicate the freedom of the 
people, are only establishing their own independ- 
ence. The deluded people will, however, at last 
perceive the miseries of an ari-stocratical govern- 
ment ; they will perceive that the administration 
of a society of men is ever more painful than that 
of one only. They will fly from this most oppres- 
sive of all forms, where one single member is 
capable of controlling the whole, to take refuge 
under the throne, which will ever be attentive to 
their complaints. No people long endure an aris- 
tocratical government, when they can apply 
elsewhere for redress. The lower orders of people 
may be enslaved for a time by a number of tyrants, 
but upon the first opportunity they will ever take 
refuge in despotism or democracy. 

As the Swedes are making concealed approaches 
to despotism, the French, on the other hand, are 
imperceptibly vindicating themselves into freedom . 
"When I consider that those parliaments (the 
members of which are all created by the court, 
the presidents of which can act only by immediate 
direction) presume even to mention privileges and 
freedom, who, till of late, received directions from 
the throne with implicit humility; when this is 
considered, I cannot help fancying that the genius 
of freedom has entered that kingdom in disguise. 
If they have but three weak -monarchs more, 
successively on the throne, the mask will be laid 
aside, and the country will certainly once more be 
free. 

When I compare the figure which the Dutch 
make in Europe, with what they assume in Asia, 
I am struck with surprise. In Asia, I find them 
the great lords of all the Indian seas ; in Europe, 
the timid inhabitants of a paltry state. No longer 
the sons of freedom, bnt of avarice; no longer 
assertors of their rights by courage, but by nego- 
ciations ; fawning on those who insult them, and 
crouching under the rod of every neighbouring 
power. Without a friend to save them in distress, 
and without virtue, to save themselves ; their 
government is poor, and their private wealth will 
serve but to invite some neighbouring invader 

I long with impatience for your letters from 
England, Denmark, Holland, and Italy ; yet, why 
wish for relations which only describe new cala- 
mities, which show that ambition and avarice are 
equally terrible in every region? Adieu. 



LETTER LVII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President &! 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

I have frequently admired the manner of criti- 
cising in China, where the learned are assembled 
in a body to judge of every new publication; to 
examine the merits of the work without knowing 
the circumstances of the author, and then to usher 
it into the world with proper marks of respect or 
approbation. 

In England there are no such tribunals erected ; 
but if a man thinks proper to be a judge of genius, 
few will be at the pains to contradict his preten- 
sions. If any choose to be critics, it is but saying 
they are critics, and from that time forward they 
become invested with full power and authority 
over every caitiff who aims at their instruction or 
entertainment. 

As almost every member of society has by this 
means a vote in literary transactions, it is no way 
surprising to find the rich leading the way here 
as in other common concerns in life, to see them 
either bribing the numerous herd of voters by 
their interest, or browbeating them by their au- 
thority. 

A great man says, at his table, that such a book 
is no bad thing. Immediately the praise is carried 
off by five flatterers to be dispersed at twelve dif- 
ferent coffee-houses, from whence it circulates, 
still improving as it proceeds, through forty-five 
houses, where cheaper liquors are sold; from 
thence it is carried away by the honest tradesman 
to his own fire-side, where the applause is eagerly 
caught up by his wife and children, who have 
long been taught to regard his judgment as the 
standard of perfection. Thus when we have traced 
a wide extended literary reputation up to its 
original source, we'shallfind it derived from some 
great man, who has, perhaps, received all his 
education and English from a tutor of Berne, or a 
dancing-master of Picardie. 

The English are a people of good sense, and I 
am the more surprised to find them swayed in 
their opinions by men who often, from their very 
education, are incompetent judges..,. Men who, 
being always bred in affluence, see the world only 
on one side, are surely improper judges of human 
nature ; they may indeed describe a ceremony, a 
pageant, or a ball ; but how can they pretend to 
dive into the secrets of the human heart, who 
have been nursed up only in forms, and daily 
behold nothing but the same insipid adulation 
smiling upon every face? Few of them have been 
bred in the best of schools, the school of adver- 
sity ; and by what I can learn, fewer still have 
been bred in any school at all. 

From such a description, one would think that 
a droning duke, or a dowager duchess was not pos- 
sessed of more just pretensions to taste than per- 
sons of less quality; and yet, whatever the one 
or the other may write or praise, shall pass for 
perfection, without further examination. A no- 
bleman has but to take a pen, ink, and paper, and 
write away through three large volumes, and then 
sign his name to the title-page ; though the whole 
might have been before more disgusting than his 
own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives 
value to the deed; title being alone equivalent to 
taste, imagination, and genius. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



63 



As soon as a piece, therefore, is published, the 
first questions are, Who is the author? does he 
keep a coach? where lies his estate? what sort of 
a table does he keep? If he happens to be poor, 
and unqualified for such a scrutiny, he and his 
works sink into irremediable obscurity , and too 
late he finds, that having fed upon turtle is a more 
ready way to fame, than having digested Tully. 

The poor devil, against whom fashion has set 
its face, vainly alleges that he has been bred in . 
every part of Europe where knowledge was to be 
sold ; that he has grown pale in the study of 
nature and himself: his works may please upon 
the perusal, but his pretensions to fame are en- 
tirely disregarded: he is treated like a fiddler, 
whose music, though liked, is not much praised, 
because he lives by it ; while a gentleman per- 
former, though the most wretched scraper alive, 
throws the audience into raptures. The fiddler 
indeed may, in such a case, console himself by 
thinking, that while the other goes off with all 
the praise, he runs away with all the money : but 
here the parallel drops ; for while the nobleman 
triumphs in unmerited applause, the author by 
profession steals off with — nothing. 

The poor, therefore, here, who draw their pens 
auxiliary to the laws of their country, must think 
themselves very happy if they find, not fame, but 
forgiveness ; and yet they are hardly treated : for 
as every country grows more polite, the press 
becomes more useful, and writers become more 
necessary, as readers are supposed to increase. 
In a polished society, that man, though in rags, 
who has the power of enforcing virtue from the 
press, is of more real use than forty stupid brach- 
mans, or bonzes, or guebres, though they preached 
never so often, never so loud, or never so long. 
That man, though in rags, who is capable of de- 
ceiving even indolence into wisdom, and who 
professes amusement, while he aims at reforma- 
tion, is more useful in refined society, than twenty 
cardinals with their scarlet, and tricked out in all 
the fopperies of scholastic finery. ' 



LETTER LVIII. 



As the man in black takes every opportunity of 
introducing me to such company as may serve to 
indulge my speculative temper, or gratify my 
curiosity, I was by his influence lately invited to 
a visitation dinner. To understand this term, you 
must know, that it was formerly the custom here 
for the principal priests to go about the country 
once a-year, and examine upon the spot, whether 
those of subordinate orders did their duty, or 
were qualified for the task ; whether their tem- 
ples were kept in proper repair, or the laity pleased 
with their administration. 

Though a visitation of this nature was very 
useful, yet it was found to be extremely trouble- 
some, and for many reasons utterly inconvenient ; 
for as the principal priests were obliged to attend 
at court, in order to solicit preferment, it was im- 
possible they could at the same time attend in 
the country, which was quite out of the road to 
promotion : if we add to this the gout, which has 
been time immemorial a clerical disorder here, 
together with the bad wine, and ill-dressed pro- 



visions, that roust infallibly be served up by the 
way, it was not strange that the custom has been 
long discontinued. At present, therefore, every 
head of the church, instead of going about to visit 
his priests, is satisfied if his priests come in a body 
once a year to visit him ; by this means the duty 
of half a year is despatched in a day. When as- 
sembled, he asks each in his turn, how they have 
behaved, and are liked ; upon which those who 
have neglected their duty, or are disagreeable to 
their congregation, no doubt accuse themselves, 
and tell him all their faults, for which he repri- 
mands them most severely. 

The thoughts of being introduced into a com- 
pany of philosophers and learned men, for as such 
I conceived them, gave me no small pleasure ; I 
expected our entertainment would resemble those 
sentimental banquets so finely described by 
Xenophon and Plato; I was hoping some So- 
crates would be brought in from the door, in 
order to harangue upon divine love; but as for 
eating and drinking, I had prepared myself to be 
disappointed in that particular. I was apprised 
that fasting and temperance were teuets strongly 
recommended to the professors of Christianity; 
Gild I had seen the frugality and mortification of 
the priests of the East ; so that I expected an en- 
tertainment where we should have much reason- 
ing and little meat. 

Upon being introduced, I confess I found no 
great signs of mortification in the faces or persons 
of the company. However, I imputed their florid 
looks to temperance, and their corpulency to a 
sedentary way of living. I saw several prepa- 
rations indeed for dinner, but none for philosophy. 
The oompany seemed to gaze upon the table with 
silent expectation ; but this I easily excused. 
Men of wisdom, thought I, are evei slow of 
speech; they deliver nothing unadvisedly. '.Si- 
lence,' says Confucius, 'is a friend that will never 
betray.' They are now probably inventing maxims, 
or hard sayings, for their mutual instruction, when 
some one shall think proper to begin. 

My curiosity was now wrought up to the 
highest pitch ; I impatiently looked round to see 
if any were going to interrupt the mighty pause ; 
when at last one of the company declared, that 
there was a sow in his neighbourhood that far- 
rowed fifteen pigs at a litter. This I thought a 
very preposterous beginning; but just as another 
was going to second the remark, dinner was 
served, which interrupted the conversation for 
that time. 

The appearance of dinner, which consisted of a 
variety of dishes, seemed to diffuse new cheerful- 
ness upon every face ; so that I now expected the 
philosophical conversation to begin, as they im- 
proved in good humour. The principal priest, 
however, opened his mouth with only observing 
that the venison had not been kept enough, though 
he had given strict orders for having it killed ten 
days before. ' I fear,' continued he, ' it will be 
found to want the -true heathy flavour ; you will 
find nothing of the original wildness in it.' A 
priest who sat next him, having smelt it, and 
wiped his nose, 'Ah, my good lord,' cries he. 
'you are too modest, it is perfectly fine; every 
body knows, that no body understands keeping 
venison with your lordship.' — ' Ay, and partridges 
too,' interrupted another; ' I never find them riglit 
any where else.' His lordship was going to reply. 
when a third took off the attention of the com- 



64 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



pany, by recommending the pig as inimitable. 
'I fancy, my lord,' continues he, 'it has been 
smothered in its own blood.'— 'If it has been 
smothered in its own blood,' cried a facetious mem- 
ber, helping himself, ' we'll no smother it in egg 
sauce.' This poignant piece of humour produced 
a loud laugh, which the facetious brother observ- 
ing, and now that he was in luck, willing to 
second his blow, assured the company he would 
tell them a good story about that;_ 'as good a 
story,' cries he, bursting into a violent fit of 
laughter himself, 'as ever you heard in your 
lives. There was a farmer in my parish who 
used to sup upon wild ducks and flummery; so 
this farmer—' 'Dr. Marrowfat,' cries his lord- 
ship, interrupting him, ' give me leave to drink 
your health ;'— ' so being fond of wild ducks and 
flummery— ' 'Doctor,' adds a gentleman who 
sat next him, ' let me advise you to a wing of a 
this turkey ;'— ' so this farmer being fond—' ' Hob 
nob, doctor, which do you choose, white or red V 

' so being fond of wild ducks and flummery — ' 

' Take care of your hand, sir, it may dip in the 
gravy.' The doctor, now looking round, found 
not a single eye disposed to listen; wherefore, 
calling for a glass of wine, he gulped down the 
disappointment and the tale in a bumper. r _. 

The conversation now began to be little more 
than a rhapsody of exclamations; as each had 
pretty well satisfied his own appetite, he now 
found sufficient time to press others. ' Excellent ! 
the very thing ! let me recommend the pig ! do 
but taste the bacon ! never eat a better thing in 
my life! exquisite! delicious !' — This edifying 
discourse continued through three courses, which 
lasted as many hours, till every one of the com- 
pany were unable to swallow or utter any thing 

more - , ^ -^ ^ • 

It is very natural for men wno are abridged in 
one excess to break into some other. The clergy 
here, particularly those who are advanced m 
years, think if they are abstemious with regard to 
women and wine, they may indulge their other 
appetites without censure. Thus some are found 
to rise in the morning, only to a consultation with 
their cook about dinner, and when that has been 
swallowed, make no other use of their faculties 
(if they have any), but to ruminate on the suc- 
ceeding meal. 

A debauch in wine is even more pardonable 
than this, since one glass insensibly leads on to 
another, and instead of sating, whets the appetite. 
The progressive steps to it are cheerful and se- 
ducing ; the grave are animated, the melancholy 
relieved; and there is even classic authority, to 
countenance the excess. But in eating, after 
nature is once satisfied, every additional morsel 
brings stupidity and distempers"^ with it, and, as 
one of their own poets expresses it, 

The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines, 
To seem but mortal, even in sound divines. 

Let me suppose, after such a meal as this I have 
been describing, while all the company are sitting 
in lethargic silence round the table, groaning 
under a load of soup, pig, pork, and bacon ; let me 
suppose, I say, some hungry beggar, with looks 
of want, peeping through one of the windows, and 
thus addressing the assembly: 'Pr'ythee pluck 
those napkins from your chins; after nature is 
satisfied, all that you eat extraordinaryjsjny 
property, and I claim it as mine. It was given 



you in order to relieve me, and not to oppress 
yourselves. How can they comfort or instruct 
others, who can scarce feel their own existence, 
except from the unsavoury returns of an ill- 
digested meal? But though neither you, nor the 
cushions you sit upon, will hear me, yet the world 
regards the excesses of its teachers with a prying 
eye, and notes their conduct with double severity.' 
I know no other answer any one of the company 
could make to such an expostulation, but this: 
•Friend, you talk of our losing a character, and 
being disliked by the world ; well, and supposing 
all this to be true, what then ? who cares for the 
world ? We'll preach for the world, and the world 
shall pay us for preaching, whether we like each 
other or not.' 



LETTER LIX. 

From Hingpo, to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow 

You will probably be pleased to see my letter 
dated from Terki, a city which lies beyond the 
bounds of the Persian empire ; here, blessed with 
security, with all that is dear, J double my rap- 
tures, by communicating them to you ; the mind 
sympathizing with the freedom of the body, my 
whole soul is dilated in gratitude, lovej and 
praise. 

Yet, were my own happiness all that inspired 
my present joy, my raptures might justly merit 
the imputation of self-interest ; but when I think 
that the beautiful Zelis is also free, forgive my 
triumoh, when I boast of having rescued from 
captivity the most deserving object upon earth. 

You remember the reluctance she testified &tt 
being obliged to marry the tyrant she hated. Her 
compliance at last was only feigned, in order to 
gain time to try some future means of escape. 
During the interval between her promise and the 
intended performance of it, she came, undis- 
covered, one evening to the place where I gene- 
rally retired after the fatigues of the day; her 
appearance was like that of an aerial genius, when 
it descends to minister comfort to undeserved 
distress; the mild lustre of her eye served to 
banish any timidity; her accents were sweeter 
than the echo of some distant symphony. ' Un- 
happy stranger,' said she, in the Persian language, 
• you here perceive one more wretched than thy- 
self; all this solemnityof preparation, this elegance 
of aress, ana trie nuniDer or my attendants, serve 
but to increase my miseries ; if you have courage 
to rescue an unhappy woman from approaching 
ruin, and our detested tyrant, you may depend 
upon my future gratitude.' I bowed to the 
ground, and she left me filled with rapture and 
astonishment. Night brought me no rest; nor 
could the ensuing morning calm the anxieties of 
my mind. I projected a thousand methods for 
her delivery; but each, when strictly examined, 
appeared impracticable; in this uncertainty, the 
evening again arrived, and I placed myself on my 
former station, in hopes of a repeated visit. After 
some short expectation, the bright perfection 
again appeared: I bowed, as before, to the 
ground; when, raising me up, she observed, that 
the time was not to be spent in useless ceremony; 
she observed, that the day following was appointed 
for the celebration of her nuptials, and that some- 
thing was to be done that very night for our 
mutual deliverance. I offered, with the utmost 



TFIE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



65 



humility, to pursue wnatever scneme sne snouid 
direct ; upon which she proposed that instant to 
scale the garden wall; adding, that she had pre- 
vailed upon a female slave, who was now waiting 
at the appointed place, to assist her with a ladder. 

Pursuant to this information, I led her tremb- 
ling to the place appointed; but, instead of the 
slave we expected to see, Mostadad himself was 
tnere awaiting our arrival ; the wretch, in whom 
we confided, it seems had betrayed our design to 
her master, and he now saw the most convincing 
proofs of her information. He was just going to 
draw his sabre, when a principle of avarice re- 
pressed his fury, and he resolved, after a severe 
chastisement, to dispose of me to another master ; 
in the meantime, ordered me to be confined in the 
strictest manner, ' and next day to receive a 
hundred blows on the soles of my feet. 

When the morning came, I was led out in 
order to receive the punishment, which, from the 
severity with which it is generally inflicted upon 
slaves, is worse even than death. 

A trumpet was to be a signal for the solemniza- 
tion of the nuptials of Zelis, and for the infliction 
of my punishment. Each ceremony to me equally 
dreadful, was just going to begin, when we were 
informed that a large party of Circassian Tartars 
had invaded the town, and were laying all in 
ruin. Every person now thought of only saving 
himself; I instantly unloosed the cords with 
which I was bound, and seizing a scymitar from 
one of the slaves, who had not courage to resist 
me, flew to the women's apartment, where Zelis 
was confined, dressed out for the intended nup- 
tials. I bade her follow me without delay; and 
going forward, cut my way through the eunuchs, 
who made but a faint resistance. The whole city 
was now a scene of conflagration and terror; 
every person was willing to save himself, un- 
mindful of others. In this confusion, seizing 
upon two of the fleetest coursers in the stables of 
Mostadad, we fled northward, towards the king- 
dom of Circassia. As there were several others 
flying in the same manner, we passed without 
notice, and in three days arrived at Terki, a city 
that lies in a valley within the bosom of the 
frowning mountains of Caucasus. 

Here, free from every apprehension of danger, 
we enjoy all those satisfactions which are con- 
sistent with virtue ; though I find my heart, at 
intervals, give way to unusual passions, yet such 
is my admiration for my fair companion, that I 
lose even tenderness in distant respect. Though 
her person demands particular regard, even 
among the beauties of Circassia, yet is her mind 
far more lovely. How very different is a woman, 
who thus has cultivated her understanding, and 
been refined into delicacy of sentiment, from the 
daughters of the east, whose education is only 
formed to improve the person, and make them 
more tempting objects of prostitution ! Adieu. 




1 I sat down, and supporilng hl« aped head in my lap, gazed upon 
the ghastly visage, with an agony mora poignant even khan 
despairing madness." 



LETTER LX. 



From Hingpo, to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow. 

When sufficiently refreshed after the fatigues of 
our precipitate flight, my curiosity, which had 
been restrained by the appearance of immediate 
clanger, now began to revive ; I longed to know, 
by what distressful accident my fair fugitive 
became a captive, and could not avoid testifying 
a surprise, how so much beauty could be involved 
in the calamities from whence she had been so 
lately rescued. 

' Talk not of personal charms,' cried she, with 
emotion, * since to them I owe every misfortune ; 
look around on the numberless beauties of the 
country where we are ; and see how nature has 
poured its charms upon every face, and yet by 
this profusion heaven would seem to show how 
little it regards such a blessing, since the gift is 
lavished upon a nation of prostitutes. 

' I perceive you desire to know my story, and 
your curiosity is not so great as my desire ta 
gratify it; I find a pleasure in telling past mis 
fortunes to any ; but when my deliverer is pleased 
with the relation, my pleasure is prompted by 
duty. 

* 'I was born in a country far to the west, 
where the men are braver, and the women more 
fair than those of Circassia; where the valour of 
the hero is guided by wisdom, and where delicacy 
of sentiment points the shafts of female beauty. 
I was the only daughter of an officer in the army, 
the child of his age, and as he used fondly to 
express it, the only chain that bound him ts the 
world, or made his life pleasing. His station pro- 
cured him an acquaintance with men of greater 
rank and fortune than himself; and his regard 
for me induced him to bring me into every family 
where he was acquainted : thus I was early taught 
all the elegancies and fashionable foibles of such as 
the world calls polite, and though without fortune 
myself, was taught to despise those who lived as 
if they were poor. 

1 My intercourse with the great, and my affecta- 
tion of grandeur, procured me many lovers : but 
want of fortune deterred them all from any other 
views than those of passing the present moment 

* This story hears a striking similitude to the real his- 
tory of Miss S d, who accompanied Lady W e, 

in her retreat near Florence, and which the editor had from 
her own mouth. 



66 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



agreeably, or of meditating my future ruin. In 
every company I found myself addressed in a 
warmer strain of passion than other ladies who 
were superior in point of rank and beauty; and 
this I imputed to an excess of respect, which in 
reality proceeded from very different motives. 

' Among the number of such as paid me their 
addresses, was a gentleman, a friend of my father, 
rather in the decline of life, with nothing remark- 
able either in his person or address to recommend 
him. His age, which was about forty, his fortune, 
which was moderate, and barely sufficient to sup- 
port him, served to throw me off my guard, so 
that I had considered him as the only sincere 
admirer I had. 

' Designing lovers, in the decline of life, are 
ever most dangerous. Skilled in all the weak- 
nesses of the sex, they seize each favourable op- 
portunity, and by having less passion than youth- 
ful admirers, have less real respect, and therefore 
less timidity. This insidious wretch used a thou- 
sand arts to succeed in his base designs ; all which 
I saw, but. imputed to different views, because I 
thought it absurd to believe the real motives. 

' As he continued to frequent my father's, the 
friendship between them became every day 
greater; and at last, from the intimacy with 
which he was received, I was taught to look upon 
him as a guardian and a friend. Though I never 
.loved, yet I esteemed him ; and this was enough 
to make me wish for a union, for which he seemed 
desirous, but to which he feigned several delays ; 
while, in the mean time, from a false report of 
our being married, every other admirer forsook me. 

• I was at last, however, awakened from the 
delusion, hy an account of his being just married 
to another young lady with a considerable for- 
tune. This was no great mortification to me, as I 
had always regarded him merely from prudential 
motives ; hut it had a very different effect upon 
my father, who, rash and passionate by nature, 
and, besides, stimulated by a mistaken notion 
of military honour, upbraided his friend in such 
terms, that a challenge was soon given and ac- 
cepted. 

' It was about midnight, when I was awakened 
hy a message from my father, who desired to see 
me that moment. I rose with some surprise ; and 
following the messenger, attended only by ano- 
ther servant, came to a field not far from the 
house, where I found him, the asserter of my 
honour, my only friend and supporter, the tutor 
and companion of my youth, lying on one side 
covered over with blood, and just expiring. No 
tears streamed down my cheeks, nor sigh escaped 
from my breast, at an object of such terror. I sat 
down, and supporting his aged head in my lap, 
gazed upon the ghastly visage with an agony 
more poignant even than despairing madness. 
The servants were gone for more assistance. In 
this gloomy stillness of the night, no sounds were 
heard but his agonizing respirations ; no object 
was presented but his wounds, which still con- 
tinued to stream. With silent anguish I hung 
over his dear face, and with my hands strove to 
stop the blood as it flowed from his wounds ; he 
seemed at first insensible; but at last, turning 
his dying eyes upon me — ' My dear child !' cried 
he, ' dear, though you have forgotten your own 
honour, and stained mine, I will yet forgive you; 
by abandoning virtue, you have undone me and 
yourself yet, take my forgiveness with the same 



compassion I wish heaven may pity me.' He ex 
pired. All my succeeding happiness fled with 
him. Reflecting that I was the cause of his 
death, whom only I loved upon earth ; accused 
of betraying the honour of his family with his 
latest breath; conscious of my own innocence, 
yet without even a possibility of vindicating it ; 
without fortune, or friends to relieve or pity me, 
abandoned to infamy, and the wide censuring 
world, I called out upon the dead body that lay 
stretched before me, and in the agony of my 
heart asked, why he could have left me thus? 
' Why, my dear, my only papa, could you ruin 
me thus, and yourself, for ever ! O pity and re- 
turn, since there is none but you to comfort me/ 

' I soon found that I had real cause for sorrow ; 
that I was to expect no compassion from my own 
sex, nor assistance from the other ; and that re- 
putation was much more useful in our commerce 
with mankind, than really to deserve it. Wher- 
ever I came, I perceived myself received either 
with contempt or detestation : or whenever I was 
civilly treated, it was from the most base and un- 
generous motives. 

' Thus driven from the society of the virtuous, 
I was at last, in order to dispel the anxieties of 
insupportable solitude, obliged to take up with the 
company of those whose characters were blasted 
like my own ; but who, perhaps, deserved infamy. 
Among this number was a lady of the first dis- 
tinction, whose character the public thought pro- 
per to brand even with greater infamy than 'mine. 
A similitude of distress soon united us : I knew 
that general reproach had made her miserable ; 
and I had learned to regard misery as an excuse 
for guilt. Though this lady had not virtue enough 
to avoid reproach, yet she had too much delicate 
sensibility not to feel it. She therefore proposed 
our leaving the country where we were born, and 
going to live in Italy, where our characters and 
misfortunes would be unknown. With this I ea- 
gerly complied ; and we soon found ourselves in 
one of the most charming retreats in the most 
beautiful province of that enchanting country. 

' Had my companion chosen this as a retreat 
for injured virtue, a harbour where we might look 
with tranquillity on the distant angry world, I 
should have been happy ; but very different was 
her design : she had pitched upon this situation 
only to enjoy those pleasures in private, which 
she had not sufficient effrontery to satisfy in a 
more open manner. A nearer acquaintance soon 
showed me the vicious part of her character ; her 
mind as well as her body seemed formed only for 
pleasure; she was sentimental only as it served 
to protract the immediate enjoyment. Formed 
for society alone, she spoke infinitely better than 
she wrote, and wrote infinitely better than she 
lived. A person devoted to pleasure often leads 
the most miserable life imaginable ; such was her 
case : she considered the natural moments of lan- 
guor as insupportable, passed all her hours be- 
tween rapture and anxiety; ever in an extreme 
of agony or bliss. She felt a pain as sincere for 
want of appetite, as the starving wretch who wants 
a meal. In those intervals she usually kept her 
bed, and rose only when in expectation of some 
new enjoyment. The luxuriant air of the coun- 
try, the romantic situation of her palace, and the 
genius of a people whose only happiness lies in 
sensual refinement, all contributed to banish the 
remembrance of her native country. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



67 



' But though such a life gave her pleasure, it 
had a very different effect upon me ; I grew every 
day more pensive, and my melancholy was re- 
garded as an insult upon her good humour. I now 
perceived myself entirely unfit for all society ; 
discarded from the good, and detesting the infa- 
mous, I seemed in a state of war with every rank 
of people; that virtue which should have been my 
protection in the world, was here my crime : in 
short, detesting life, I was determined to become 
a recluse, to leave a world where I found no 
pleasure that could allure me to stay. Thus de- 
termined, I embarked in order to go by sea to 
Rome, where I intended to take the veil; but 
even in so short a passage my hard fortune still 
attended me ; our ship was taken by a Barbary 
corsair; the whole crew, and I among the num- 
ber, being made slaves. It carries too much the 
air of romance, to inform you of my distresses or 
obstinacy in this miserable state ; it is enough to 
observe, that I have been bought by several mas- 
ters ; each of whom perceiving my reluctance, ra- 
ther than use violence, sold me to another, till it 
was my happiness to be rescued by you.' 

Thus ended her relation, which I have abridged ; 
but as soon as we arrive at Moscow, for which we 
intend to set out shortly, you shall be informed of 
all more particularly. In the meantime, the 
greatest addition to my happiness will be to hear 
of yours. Adieu. 



LETTER LXI. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, " 

The news of your freedom lifts the load of former 
anxiety from my mind ; I can now think of my 
son without regret, applaud his resignation under 

; calamity, and his conduct in extricating himself 
from it. 

You are now free, just let loose from the bond- 
age of a hard master ; this is the crisis of your 
fate ; and as you now manage fortune, succeeding 
life will be marked with happiness or misery ; a 
few years' perseverance in prudence, which at 
your age is but another name for virtue, will en- 
sure comfort, pleasure, tranquillity, esteem ; too 
eager an enjoyment of every good that now offers 
will reverse the medal, and present you poverty, 
anxiety, remorse, and contempt. 

As it has been observed, that none are better 
qualified to give others advice than those who 
have taken the least of it themselves ; so in this 
respect I find myself perfectly authorized to offer 
mine, even though I should wave my paternal 
authority upon this occasion. 

The most usual way among young men who 
have no resolution of their own, is first to ask one 
friend's advice, and follow it for some time ; then 
to ask advice of another, and turn to that; so of a 
third, still unsteady, always changing. How- 
ever, be assured that every change of this nature 
is for the worse ; people may tell you of your being 
unfit for some peculiar occupations in life; but 

| heed them not ; whatever employment you follow 
with perseverance and assiduity will be found fit 
for you; ft will be your support in youth, and 
comfort in age. In learning the useful part of 
every profession, very moderate abilities will suf- 
fice ; even if the mind be a little balanced with 
stupidity, it may in this case be useful. Great 
abilities have always been less serviceable to the 



possessors than moderate ones. Life has been 
compared to a race, but the allusion still improves, 
by observing that the most swift are ever the least 
manageable. 

To know one profession only, is enough for one 
man to know ; and this (whatever the professors 
may tell you to the contrary) is soon learned. Be 
contented, therefore, with one good employment ; 
for if you understand two at a time, people will 
give you business in neither. 

A conjurer and a tailor once happened to con- 
verse together : ' Alas !' cries the tailor, ' what 
an unhappy poor creature am I ; if people should 
ever take it in their heads to live without clothes, 
I am undone ; I have no other trade to have re- 
course to.' — ■' Indeed, friend, I pity you sincerely,' 
replies the conjurer ; • but, thank heaven, things 
are not quite so bad with me ; for if one trick 
should fail, I have a hundred tricks more for 
them yet. However, if at any time you are re- 
duced to beggary, apply to me, and I will relieve 
you.' A famine overspread the land; the tailor 
made shift to live, because his customers could 
not be without clothes; but the poor conjurer, 
with all his hundred tricks, could find none that 
had money to throw away ; it was in vain that he 
promised to eat fire, or to vomit pins ; no single 
creature would relieve him, till at last he was 
obliged to beg from the very tailor whose calling 
he had formerly despised. 

There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune 
than pride and resentment. If you must resent 
injuries at all, at least suppress your indignation 
until you become rich, and then show away : the 
resentment of a poor man, is like the efforts of a 
harmless insect to sting; it may get him crushed, 
but cannot defend him. Who values that anger 
which is consumed only in empty menaces ? 

Once upon a time, a goose fed its young by a 
pond side ; and a goose, in such circumstances, is 
always extremely proud, and excessively puncti- 
lious. If any other animal, without the least de- 
sign to offend, happened to pass that way, the 
goose was immediately at him ; the pond, she 
said, was hers, and she would maintain a right 
in it, and support her honour, while she had a 
bill to hiss, or a wing to flutter. In this manner 
she drove away ducks, pigs, and chickens ; nay, 
even the insidious cat was seen to scamper. A 
longing mastiff, however, happened to pass by, 
and thought it no harm if he should lap a little of 
the water, as he was thirsty. The guardian 
goose flew at him like a fury, pecked at him with 
her beak, and flapped him with her feathers. 
The dog grew angry, had twenty times a good 
mind to give her a sly snap ; but suppressing his 
indignation, because his master was nigh, ' A pox 
take thee,' cries he, • for a fool ; sure those who 
have neither strength nor weapons to fight, at 
least should be civil : that fluttering and hissing 
of thine may one day get thine head snapt off, but 
it can neither injure thy enemies, nor ever pro- 
tect thee.' So saying, he went forward to the 
pond, quenched his thirst in spite of the goose, 
and followed his master. 

Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, 
that while they are willing to take offence from 
none, they are also equally desirous of giving 
none offence. From hence they endeavour to 
please all, comply with every request, attempt to 
suit themselves to every company ; have no will 
of their own, but like wax, catch every contigu- 



68 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



ous impression. By thus attempting to give uni- 
versal satisfaction, they at last find themselves 
miserably disappointed; to bring the generality 
of admirers on our side, it is sufficient to attempt 
pleasing a very few. 

A painter of eminence was once resolved to 
finish a piece which should please the whole 
world. When, therefore, he had drawn a picture, 
in which his utmost skill was exhausted, it was 
exposed in the public market place, with direc- 
tions at the bottom for every spectator to mark 
with a brush which lay by, every limb and fea- 
ture which seemed erroneous. The spectators 
came, and in general applauded; but each willing 
to show his talent at criticism, marked whatever 
he thought proper. At evening, when the painter 
came, he was mortified to find the whole picture 
one universal blot : not a single stroke that was 
not stigmatized with marks of disapprobation: 
not satisfied with this trial, the next day he was 
resolved to try them in a different manner ; and 
exposing his picture as before, desired that every 
spectator would mark those beauties he approved 
or admired. The people complied ; and the artist 
returning, found his picture replete with marks of 
beauty; every stroke that had been yesterday con- 
demned, now received the character of approba- 
tion. ' Well,' cries the painter, ' I now find, that the 
best way to please one half of the world, is not to 
mind what the other half says ; since what are 
faults in the eyes of these, shall be by those re- 
garded as beauties.' Adieu. 



LETTER LXII. 
From the same. 

A character such as you have represented that 
of your fair companion, which continues virtuous 
though loaded with infamy, is truly great. Many 
regard virtue because it is attended with applause ; 
your favourite only for the internal pleasure it 
confers. I have often wished that ladies like her 
were proposed as models for female imitation, and . 
not such as have acquired fame by qualities re- 
pugnant to the natural softness of the sex. 

Women famed for their valour, their skill in 
politics, or their learning, leave the duties of their 
own sex, in order to invade the privileges of ours. 
I can no more pardon a fair one endeavouring to 
wield the club of Hercules, than I could him for 
attempting to twirl her distaff. 

The modest virgin, the prudent wife, or the 
careful matron, are much more serviceable in life, 
than petticoated philosophers, blustering heroines, 
or virago queens. She who makes her husband 
and her children happy, who reclaims the one 
from vice, and trains up the other to virtue, is a 
much greater character than ladies described in 
romance, whose whole occupation is to murder 
mankind with shafts from their quiver or their 
eyes. 

Women, it has been observed, are not naturally 
formed for great cares themselves, but to soften 
ours. Their tenderness is the proper reward for 
the dangers we undergo for their preservation ; 
and the ease and cheerfulness of their conversa- 



tion, our desirable retreat from the fatigues of in- 
tense application. They are confined within the 
narrow limits of domestic assiduity; and when 
they stray beyond them, they move beyond their 
sphere, and consequently without grace. 

Fame, therefore, has been very unjustly dis- 
pensed among the female sex. Those who least 
deserved to be remembered, meet our admiration 
and applause; while many, who have been an 
honour to humanity, are passed over in silence. 
Perhaps no age has produced a stronger instance 
of misplaced fame than the present ; the Semira- 
mis and Thalestris of antiquity are talked of, while 
a modern character, infinitely greater than either, 
is unnoticed and unknown. 

Catharina Alexowna,* born near Derpat, a little 
city in Livonia, was heir to no other inheritance 
than the virtues and frugality of her parents. 
Her father being dead, she lived with her aged 
mother in a cottage covered with straw; and both, 
though very poor, were very contented. Here, 
retired from the gaze of the world, by the labour 
of her hands, she supported her parent, who was 
now incapable of supporting herself. While Ca- 
tharina spun, the old woman would sit by, and 
read some book of devotion. Thus, when the 
fatigues of the day were over, both would sit down 
contentedly by their fire-side, and enjoy the frugal 
meal with vacant festivity. 

Though her face and person were models of per- 
fection, yet her whole attention seemed bestowed 
upon her mind ; her mother taught her to read, and 
an old Lutheran minister instructed her in the max- 
ims and duties of religion. Nature had furnished 
her not only with a ready but a solid turn of thought, 
not only with a strong but a right understanding. 
Such truly female accomplishments, procured her 
several solicitations of marriage from the peasants 
of the country ; but their offers were refused : for 
she loved her mother too tenderly to think of a 
separation. 

Catharina was fifteen when her mother died; 
she now therefore left her cottage, and went to 
live with the Lutheran minister, by whom she had 
been instructed from her childhood. In his house 
she resided in quality of governess to his children; 
at once reconciling in her character unerring 
prudence with surprising vivacity. 

The old man, who regarded her as one of his 
own children, had her instructed in dancing and 
music by the masters who attended the rest of his 
family. Thus she continued to improve till he 
died; by which accident, she was once more re- 
duced to pristine poverty. The country of Livonia 
was at this time wasted by war, and lay in a most 
miserable state of desolation. Those calamities 
are ever most heavy upon the poor; wherefore 
Catharina, though possessed of so many accom- 
plishments, experienced all the miseries of hope- 
less indigence. Provisions becoming every day 
more scarce, and her private stock being entirely 
exhausted, she resolved at last to travel to Marien- 
burgh, a city of greater plenty. 

With her scanty wardrobe packed up in a wal- 
let, she set out on the journey on foot : she was 
to walk through a region miserable by nature, but 
rendered still more hideous by the Swedes and 
Russians, who, as each happened to become mas- 
ters, plundered it at discretion : but hunger had 
r * This account seems taken from the manuscript memoirs 
of H. Spelman, Esq. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



69 



tauglit heT to despise the dangers and fatigues of 
the way. 

One evening upon her journey, as she had 
entered a cottage by the way-side, to take up her 
lodging for the night, she was insulted by two 
Swedish soldiers, who insisted upon qualifying 
her, as they termed it, to follow the camp. They 
might probably have carried their insults into 
violence, hatl not a subaltern officer, accidentally 
passing by, come to her assistance ; upon his ap- 
pearing, the soldiers immediately desisted; but 
her thankfulness was hardly greater than her 
surprise, when she instantly recollected in her 
deliverer, the son of the Lutheran minister, her 
former instructor, benefactor, and friend. 

This was a happy interview for Catharina; the 
little stock of money she had brought from home 
was by this time quite exhausted ; her clothes 
Avere gone, piece by piece, in order to satisfy those 
who had entertained her in their houses; her 
generous countryman, therefore, parted with what 
he could spare, to buy clothes, furnished her with 
a horse, and gave her letters of recommendation 
to Mr. Gluck, a faithful friend of his father's, and 
superintendent at Marienburgh. 

Our beautiful stranger had only to appear to be 
well received ; she was immediately admitted into 
the superintendent's family, as governess to his 
two daughters; and though yet but seventeen, 
showed herself capable of instructing her sex, not 
only in virtue, but politeness. Such was her 
good sense and beauty, that her master himself 
in a short time offered her his hand, which to his 
great surprise she thought proper to refuse. Ac- 
tuated by a principle of gratitude, she was re- 
solved to marry he* deliverer only, even though he 
had lost an arm, and was otherwise disfigured by 
wounds in the service. 

In order, therefore, to prevent further solicita- 
tions from others, as soon as the officer came to 
town upon duty, she offered him her person, which 
he accepted with transport, and their nuptials 
were solemnized as usual. But all the lines of 
her fortune were to be striking ; the very day on 
which they were married, the Russians laid siege 
to Marienburgh ; the unhappy soldier had now no 
time to enjoy the well-earned pleasures of matri- 
mony; he was called off, before consummation, to 
an attack, from which he was never after seen to 
return. 

In the mean time, the siege went on with fury, 
aggravated on one side by obstinacy, on the other 
by revenge. This war between the two northern 
powers at that time was truly barbarous; the 
innocent peasant and the harmless virgin, often 
shared the fate of the soldier in arms. Marien- 
burgh was taken by assault; and such was the 
fury of the assailants, that not only the garrison, 
but almost all the inhabitants, men, women, and 
children, were put to the sword ; at length, when 
the carnage was pretty well over, Catharina was 
found hid in an oven. 

She had been hitherto poor, but was still free; 
she was now to conform to her hard fate, and learn 
what it was to be a slave; in this situation, 
however, she behaved with piety and humility; 
and though misfortune had abated her vivacity, 
yet she was cheerful. The fame of her merit and 
resignation had reached even prince Menzikoff, 
the Russian general; he desired to see her, was 
struck with her beauty, bought her from the 
soldier her master and placed her under the di- 



rection of his own sister. Here she was treated 
with all the respect which her merit deserved 
while her beauty every day improved with her 
good fortune. 

She had not been long in this situation, when 
Peter the Great paying the prince a visit, Catha- 
rina happened to come in with some dry fruits, 
which she served round with peculiar modesty. 
The mighty monarch saw, and was struck with 
her beauty. He returned the next day, called for 
the beautiful slave, asked her several questions, 
and found her understanding even more perfect 
than her person. 

He had been forced when young to marry from 
motives of interest; he was now resolved to marry 
pursuant to his own inclinations. He imme- 
diately inquired the history of the fair Livonian, 
who was not yet eighteen. He traced her through 
the vale of obscurity, through all the vicissitudes 
of her fortune, and found her truly great in them 
all. The meanness of her birth was no obstruction 
to his design; their nuptials were solemnized in 
private; the prince assuring his courtiers, that 
virtue alone was the properest ladder to a throne. 

We now see Catharina, from the low, mud- 
walled cottage, empress of the greatest kingdom 
upon earth. The poor solitary wanderer is now 
surrounded by thousands, who find happiness in 
her smile. She who formerly wanted a meal, is 
now capable of diffusing plenty upon whole na- 
tions. To her fortune she owed a part of this pre- 
eminence, but to her virtues more. 

She ever after retained those great qualities 
which first placed her on a throne ; and while the 
extraordinary prince, her husband, laboured for 
the reformation of his male subjects, she studied, 
in her turn, the improvement of her own sex. 
She altered their dress, introduced mixed assem- 
blies, instituted an order of female knighthood; 
and at length, when she had greatly filled all the 
stations of empress, friend, wife, and mother, 
bravely died without regret, regretted by all. 
Adieu. 



LETTER LXIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

Ik every letter I expect accounts of some new 
revolutions in China, some strange occurrence in 
the state, or disaster among my private acquaint- 
ance. I open every packet with tremulous ex- 
pectation, and am agreeably disappointed when I 
find my friends and my country continuing in 
felicity. I wander, but they are at rest ; they 
suffer few changes, but what pass in my own 
restless imagination ; it is only the rapidity of my 
own motion, gives an imaginary swiftness to ob- 
jects which are in some measure immoveable. 

Yet believe me, my friend, that even China 
itself is imperceptibly degenerating from her an- 
cient greatness; her laws are now more venal, 
and her merchants are now more deceitful, than 
formerly; the very arts and sciences have run to 
decay. Observe the carvings on our ancient 
bridges ; figures that add grace even to nature. 
There is not an artist now in all the empire that 
can imitate their beauty. Our manufactures in 
porcelain too are inferior to what we once were 
famous for; and even Europe now begins to excel 
us. There was a time when China was the re- 



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GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



ceptacle for strangers; when all were welcome, 
who either came to improve the state, or admire 
its greatness; now the empire is shut up from 
every foreign improvement; and the very inha- 
bitants discourage each other from prosecuting 
their own internal advantages. 

Whence this degeneracy in a state so little sub- 
ject to external revolutions ? how happens it that 
China, which is now more powerful than ever, 
which is less subject to foreign invasions, and even 
assisted in some discoveries by her connexions 
with Europe; whence comes it, I say, that the 
empire is thus declining so fast into barbarity? 

This decay is surely from nature, and not the 
result of voluntary degeneracy. In a period of 
two or three thousand years, she seems at proper 
intervals to produce great minds, with an effort 
resembling that which introduces the vicissitudes 
of seasons. They rise up at once, continue for an 
age, enlighten the world, fall like ripened corn, 
and mankind again gradually relapse into pristine 
barbarity. We little ones look around, are amazed 
at the decline, seek after the causes of this invi- 
sible decay, attribute to want of encouragement 
what really proceeds from want of power; are 
astonished to find every art and every science on 
the decline, not considering that autumn is over, 
and fatigued nature again begins to repose for 
some succeeding effort. 

Some periods have been remarkable for the 
production of men of extraordinary stature ; others 
for producing particular animals in great abund- 
ance; some for excessive plenty; and others 
again for seemingly causeless famine. Nature, 
which shows herself so very different in her visi- 
ble production, must surely differ also from herself 
in the production of minds; and while she asto- 
nishes one age with the strength and stature of a 
Milo or a Maximin, may bless another with the 
wisdom of a Plato, or the goodness of an Antonine. 

Let us not then attribute to accident the falling 
off of every nation; but to the natural revolution 
of things. Often, in the darkest ages, there has 
appeared some one man of surprising abilities, 
who, with all his understanding, failed to bring 
his barbarous age into refinement ; all mankind 
seemed to sleep, till nature gave the general call, 
and then the whole world seemed at once roused at 
the voice; science triumphed in every country, 
and the brightness of a single genius seemed lost 
in a galaxy of contiguous glory. 

Thus the enlightened periods in every age have 
been universal. At the time when China first 
began to emerge from barbarity, the western world 
was equally rising into refinement ; when we had 
our Yau, they had their Sesostris. In succeeding 
ages, Confucius and Pythagoras seem born nearly 
together, and a train of philosophers then sprung 
up as well in Greece as in China. The period of 
renewed barbarity began to have a universal spread 
much about the same time, and continued for 
several centuries, till the year of the Christian 
era 1400, the emperor Yonglo arose, to revive the 
learning of the east ; while, about the same time, 
the Medicean family laboured in Italy to raise in- 
fant genius from the cradle : thus we see polite- 
ness spreading over every part of the world in one 
age, and barbarity succeeding in another : at one 
period a blaze of light diffusing itself over the 
whole world, and at another all mankind wrapped 
up in the profoundest ignorance. 

Such has been the situation of things in times 



past ; and such probably it will ever be. China, 
I have observed, has evidently begun to degene- 
rate from its former politeness; and were the 
learning of the Europeans at present candidly 
considered, the decline would perhaps appear to 
have already taken place. We should find among 
the natives of the west, the study of morality dis- 
placed for mathematical disquisition, or meta- 
physical subtleties ; we should find learning begin 
to separate from the useful duties and concerns 
of life, while none ventured to aspire after that 
character, but they who know much more than is 
truly amusing or useful. We should find every 
great attempt suppressed by prudence, and the 
rapturous sublimity in writing cooled by a cau- 
tious fear of offence. We should find few of those 
daring spirits, who bravely venture to be wrong, 
and who are willing to hazard much for the sake 
of great acquisitions. Providence has indulged 
the world with a period of almost four hundred 
years' refinement; does it not now by degrees sink 
us into our former ignorance, leaving us only the 
love of wisdom, while it deprives us of its advan- 
tages? Adieu. 



LETTER LXIV. 

From the same. 

The princes of Europe have found out a manner 
of rewarding their subjects who have behaved 
well, by presenting them with about two yards of 
blue ribbon, which is worn about the shoulder. 
They who are honoured with this mark of distinc- 
tion are called knights, and the king himself is 
always the head of the order. This is a very fru- 
gal method of recompensing the most important 
services ; and it is very fortunate for kings that 
their subjects are satisfied with such trifling re- 
wards. Should a nobleman happen to lose his leg 
in battle, the king presents him with two yards 
of ribbon, and he is paid for the loss of his limb. 
Should an ambassador spend all his paternal for- 
tune in supporting the honour of his country 
abroad, the king presents him with two yards of 
ribbon, which is to be considered as equivalent to 
his estate. In short, while a European king has 
a yard of blue or green ribbon left, he need be 
under no apprehensions of wanting statesmen, 
generals, and soldiers. 

I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in 
which men with large patrimonial estates are 
willing thus to undergo real hardships for empty 
favours. A person, already possessed of a compe- 
tent fortune, who undertakes to enter the career 
of ambition, feels many real inconveniences from 
his station, while it procures him no real happi- 
ness that he was not possessed of before. He 
could eat, drink, and sleep, before he became a 
courtier, as well, perhaps better, than when in- 
vested with his authority. He could command 
flatterers in a private 'station, as well as in his 
public capacity, and indulge at home every fa- 
vourite inclination, uncensured and unseen by the 
people. 

What real good then does an addition to a for- 
tune, already sufficient, procure ? Not any. Could 
the great man, by having his fortune increased, 
increase also his appetites, then precedence might 
be attended with real amusement. 

Was he, by having his one thousand made two, 



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71 



thus enabled to enjoy two wives, or eat two din- 
ners, then, indeed, he might be excused for under- 
going some pain, in order to extend the sphere of 
his enjoyments. But, on the contrary, he finds 
his desire for pleasure often lessen, as he takes 
pains to be able to improve it ; and his capacity of 
enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to 
' increase. 

Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with 
envy, I generally consider them with some share 
of compassion. I look upon them as a set of good- 
natured, misguided people, who are indebted to 
us, and not to themselves, for all the happiness 
they enjoy. For our pleasure, and not their own, 
they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery ; for 
our pleasure, the lackeyed train, the slow parading 
pageant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves 
in review; a single coat, or a single footman, 
answers all the purposes of the most indolent re- 
finement as well; and those who have twenty, 
may be said to keep one for their own pleasure, 
and the other nineteen merely for ours. So true 
is the observation of Confucius, that 'we take 
greater pains to persuade others that we are happy, 
than in endeavouring to think so ourselves.' 

But though this desire of being seen, of being 
made the subject of discourse, and of supporting 
the dignities of an exalted station, be troublesome 
enough to the ambitious, yet it is well for society 
that there are men thus willing to exchange ease 
and safety for danger and a ribbon. We lose 
nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind 
to endeavour to deprive a child of its rattle. 
If a duke or a duchess are willing to carry a long 
train for our entertainment, so much the worse 
for themselves; if they choose to exhibit in 
public with a hundred lackeys and mamelukes in 
their equipage for our entertainment, still so 
much the worse for themselves ; it is the specta- 
tors alone who give and receive the pleasure, they 
only the sweating figures that swell the pageant. 

A mandarine, who took much pleasure in ap- 
pearing with a number of jewels on every part of 
his robe, was once accosted by an old sly bonze, 
who followed him through several streets, and 
bowing often to the ground thanked him for his 
jewels. 'What does the man mean?' cries the 
mandarine. ' Friend, I never gave thee any of 
my jewels.' — 'No,' replied the other, 'but you 
have let me look at them, and that is all the use 
you can make of them yourself; so there is no 
difference between us, except that you have the 
trouble of watching them, and that is an employ- 
ment I do not much desire.' Adieu. 



LETTER LXV. 

From the same. 

Though not very fond of seeing a pageant my- 
; self, yet I am generally pleased with being in the 
! crowd which sees it ; it is amusing to observe the 
| effect which such a spectacle has upon the variety 
I of faces, — the pleasure it excites in some, the 
envy in others, and the wishes it raises in all. 
With this design I lately went to see the entry of 
a foreign ambassador, resolved to make one in the 
mob, to shout as they shouted, to fix with ear- 
nestness upon the same frivolous objects, and 
participate for a while in the pleasures and the 
wishes of the vulgar. 



Struggling here for some time, in order to be 
first to see the cavalcade as it passed, some one of 
the crowd unluckily happened to tread upon my 
shoe, and tore it in such a manner, that I was 
utterly unqualified to march forward with the 
main body, and obliged to fall back in the rear. 
Thus rendered incapable of being a spectator of 
the show myself, I was at least willing to observe 
the spectators, and limped behind like one of the 
invalids which follow the march of an army. 

In this plight, as I was considering the eager- 
ness that appeared on every face, how some bust- 
led to get foremost, and, others contented them- 
selves with taking a transient peep when they 
could ; how some praised the four black servants 
that were stuck behind one of the equipages, and 
some the ribbons that decorated the horses' necks 
in another, my attention was called off to an ob- 
ject more extraordinary than any I had yet seen. 
A poor cobbler sat in his stall by the way side, and 
continued to work while the crowd passed by, 
without testifying the smallest share of curiosity. 
I own, his want of attention roused mine ; and as 
I stood in need of his assistance, I thought it best 
to employ a philosophic cobbler on this occasion : 
perceiving my business, therefore, he desired me 
to enter and sit down, took my shoe in his lap, and 
began to mend it with his usual indifference and 
taciturnity. 

' How, my friend,' said I to him, ' can you con- 
tinue to work, while all those fine things are 
passing by your door?' — ' Very fine they are, mas- 
ter,' returned the cobbler, ' for those that like 
them, to be sure, but what are all those fine 
things to me? You don't know what it is to be a 
cobbler, and so much the better for yourself. Your 
bread is baked, you may go and see sights the 
whole day, and eat a warm supper when you come 
home at night ; but for me, if I should run hunt- 
ing after all these fine folk, what should I get by 
my journey but an appetite; and, God help me, I 
have too much of that at home already, without 
stirring out for it. Your people who may eat 
four meals a-day, and a supper at night, are but 
a bad example to such a one as I. No, master, as 
God has called me into this world to mend old 
shoes, I have no business with fine folk, and they 
have no business with me.' I here interrupted 
him with a smile. 'See this last, master,' con- 
tinues he, ' and this hammer ; that last and this 
hammer are the two best friends I have in this 
world ; nobody else will be my friend, because I 
want a friend. The great folks you saw pass by 
just now have five hundred friends, because they 
have no occasion for them, now, while I stick to 
my good friends here, I am very contented ; but 
when I ever so little run after sights and fine 
things, I begin to hate my work, I grow sad, and 
have no heart to mend shoes any longer.' 

This discourse only served to raise my curio- 
sity, to know more of a man whom nature had 
thus formed into a philosopher ; I therefore in- 
sensibly led him into a history of his adventures. 
' I have lived,' said he, ' a wandering sort of a 
life, now five and fifty years, here to- day, and gone 
to-morrow ; for it was my misfortune, when I was 
young, to be fond of changing.' — ' You have been 
a traveller, then, I presume,' interrupted I. 'I 
cannot boast of much travelling,' continued he, 
' for I have never left the parish in which I was 
born but three times in my life, that I can remem- 
ber ; but then there is not a street in the whole 



72 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



neighbourhood that I have not lived in at some 
time or another. When I began to settle and to 
take to my business in one street, some unfore- 
seen misfortune, or a desire of trying my luck 
elsewhere, has removed me, perhaps a whole mile 
away from my former customers, while some more 
lucky cobbler would come into my place, and make 
a handsome fortune among friends of my making ; 
there was one who actually died in a stall that I 
had left, worth seven pounds seven shillings, all 
in hard gold, which he had quilted into the waist- 
band of his breeches.' 

I could not but smile at these migrations of a 
man by the fire-side, and continued to ask if he 
had ever been married. ' Aye, that I have, mas- 
ter,' replied he, ' for sixteen long years ; and a 
weary life I had of it, heaven knows. My wife 
took it into her head, that the only way to thrive 
in this world was to save money ; so, though our 
comings-in were but about three shillings a week, 
all that ever she could lay her hands upon she 
used to hide away from me, though we were 
obliged to starve the whole week after for it. 

' The first three years we used to quarrel about 
this every day, and I always got the better ; but 
she had a hard spirit, and still continued to hide 
as usual ; so that I was at last tired of quarrel- 
ling and getting the better, and she scraped and 
scraped at pleasure, till I was almost starved to 
death. Her conduct drove me at last in despair 
to the ale-house ; here I used to sit with people 
who hated home like myself, drank while I had 
money left, and ran in score' when any body 
would trust me ; till at last the landlady, coming 
one day with a long bill, when I was from home, 
and putting it into my wife's hands, the length of 
it effectually broke her heart. I searched the 
whole stall after she was dead for money, but she 
had hidden it so effectually, that with all my 
pains I could never find a farthing.' 

By this time my shoe was mended, and satis- 
fying the poor artist for his trouble, and reward- 
ing him besides for his information, I took my 
leave, and returned home, to lengthen out the 
amusement his conversation afforded, by com- 
municating it to my friend. Adieu. 



LETTER LXVI. 
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow 
Generosity properly applied, will supply every 
other external advantage in life, but the love of 
those we converse with ; it will procure esteem 
and a conduct resembling real affection, but ac- 
tual love is the spontaneous production of the 
mind; no generosity can purchase, no rewards 
increase, nor any liberality continue it ; the very 
person who is obliged has it not in his power to 
force his lingering affections upon the object he 
should love, and voluntarily mix passion with 
gratitude. 

Imparted fortune, and well-placed liberality, 
may procure the benefactor good-will, may load 
the person obliged with the sense of the duty he 
lies under to retaliate: this is gratitude; and 
simple gratitude, untinctured with love, is all the 
return an ingenuous mind can bestow for former 
benefits. 

But gratitude and love are almost opposite 
affections ; love is often an involuntary passion, 
placed upon our companions without our consent, 



and frequently conferred without our previous 
esteem. We love some men, we know not why; 
our tenderness is naturally excited in all their 
concerns ; we excuse their faults with the same 
indulgence, and approve their virtues with the 
same applause with which we consider our own. 
While we entertain the passion, it pleases us ; we 
cherish it with delight, and give it up with reluc- 
tance; and love for love is all the reward we ex- 
pect or desire. 

Gratitude, on the contrary, is never conferred 
but where there have been previous endeavours 
to excite it ; we consider it as a debt, and our 
spirits wear a load till we have discharged the ob- 
ligation. Every acknowledgment of gratitude is 
a circumstance of humiliation, and some are 
found to submit to frequent mortifications of this 
kind ; proclaiming what obligations they owe, 
merely because they think it in some measure 
cancels the debt. 

Thus love is the most easy and agreeable, and 
gratitude the most humiliating affection of the 
mind ; we never reflect on the man we love, with- 
out exulting in our choice ; while he who has 
bound us to him by benefits alone, rises to our 
idea, as a person to whom we have, in some mea- 
sure, forfeited our freedom. Love and gratitude 
are seldom, therefore, found in the same breast, 
without impairing each other; we may tender the 
one or the other singly to those we converse Avith, 
but cannot command both together. By attempt- 
ing to increase, we diminish them ; the mind be- 
comes bankrupt under too large obligations ; aL 
additional benefits lessen every hope of future re- 
turn, and bar up every avenue that leads to ten- 
derness. 

In all our connexions with society, therefore, it 
is not only generous, but prudent, to appear in- 
sensible of the value of those favours we bestow, 
and endeavour to make the obligation seem as 
slight as possible. Love must be taken by stra- 
tagem, and not by open force ; we should seem 
ignorant that we oblige, and leave the mind at 
full liberty to give or refuse its affections ; for 
constraint may indeed leave the receiver still 
grateful, but it will certainly produce disgust. 

If to procure gratitude be our only aim, there 
is no great art in making the acquisition ; a be- 
nefit conferred demands a just acknowledgment, 
and we have a right to insist upon our due. 

But it were much more prudent to forego our 
right on such an occasion, and exchange it, if we 
can, for love. We receive but little advantage 
from repeated protestations of gratitude, but they 
cost them very much from whom we exact them 
in return ; exacting a grateful acknowledgment, 
is demanding a debt by which the creditor is not 
advantaged, and the debtor pays with reluctance. 

As Mencius, the philosopher, was travelling in 
pursuit of wisdom, night overtook him at the foot 
of a gloomy mountain, remote from the habita- 
tions of men. Here, as he was straying, while 
rain and thunder conspired to make solitude still 
more hideous, he perceived a hermit's cell, and 
approaching, asked for shelter. ' Enter,' cries 
the hermit, in a severe tone, ' men deserve not 
to be obliged, but it would be imitating their in- 
gratitude to treat them as they deserve. Come 
in: examples of vice may sometimes strengthen 
us in the ways of virtue.' 

After a frugal meal, which consisted of roots 
and tea, Mencius could not repress his curiosity 



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73 



to know why the hermit had retired from man- 
kind, the actions of whom taught the truest les- 
sons of wisdom. ' Mention not the name of man,' 
cries the hermit, with indignation ; ' here let me 
live retired from a base, ungrateful world ; here, 
among the beasts of the forest, I shall find no flat- 
terers ; the lion is a generous enemy, and the dog 
a faithful friend : but man, base man, can poison 
the bowl, and smile while he presents it.' — ' You 
have been used ill by mankind,' interrupted the 
philosopher, shrewdly. ' Yes,' returned the her- 
mit, ' on mankind I have exhausted my whole 
fortune, and this staff, and that cup, and those 
roots, are all that I have in return.' — ' Did you 
"bestow your fortune, or did you only lend it V 
returned Mencius. ' I bestowed it, undoubtedly,' 
replied the other, ' for where w r ere the merit of 
being a money-lender?' — ' Did they ever own that 
they received it ?' still adds the philosopher. — ' A 
thousand times,' cries the hermit ; ' they every 
day loaded me with professions of gratitude, for 
obligations received, and solicitations of future 
favours.' — ' If, then,' says Mencius, smiling, 'you 
did not lend your fortune, in order to have it re- 
turned, it is unjust to accuse them of ingratitude ; 
they owned themselves obliged, you expected no 
more, and they certainly earned each favour, by 
frequently acknowledging the obligation.' The 
hermit was struck with the reply, and surveying 
his guest with emotion, ' I have heard of the 
great Mencius, and you certainly are the man ; I 
am now four-score years old, but still a child in 
wisdom ; take me back to the school of man, and 
educate me as one of the most ignorant and the 
youngest of your disciples.' 

Indeed, my son, it is better to have friends in 
our passage through life, than grateful dependents ; 
and as love is a more willing, so it is a more 
lasting tribute than extorted obligation. As we 
are uneasy when greatly obliged, gratitude once 
refused can never after be recovered; the mind 
that is base enough to disallow the just return, 
instead of feeling any uneasiness upon recollec- 
tion, triumphs in its new acquired freedom, and 
in some measure is pleased with conscious base- 
ness. 

Very different is the situation of disagreeing 
friends, their separation produces a mutual un- 
easiness : like that divided being in fabulous 
creation, their sympathetic souls once more desire 
their former union, the joys of both are imperfect, 
their gayest moments tinctured with uneasiness ; 
each seeks for the smallest concessions to clear 
the way to a wished for explanation; the most 
trifling acknowledgment, the slightest accident, 
serves to effect a mutual reconciliation. 

But instead of pursuing the thought, permit me 
to soften the severity of advice, by a European 
story, which will fully illustrate my meaning. 

A fiddler and his wife, who had rubbed through 
]ife, as most couples usually do, sometimes good 
friends, at others not quite so well, one day hap- 
pened to have a dispute, which was conducted 
with becoming spirit on both sides. The wife was 
•ure she was right, and the husbaud was resolved 
to have his own way. What was to be done in 
such a case ? The quarrel grew worse by expla- 
nation, and at last the fury of both rose to such a 
pitch, that they made a vow never to sleep toge- 
ther in the same bed for the future. This was the 
most rash vow that could be imagined; for they 
still were friends at bottom, and besides they had 



but one bed in the house ; however, resolved they 
were to go through with it, and at night the 
fiddle-case was laid in bed between them, in order 
to make a separation. In this manner they con- 
tinued for three weeks ; every night the fiddle- 
case being placed as a barrier to divide them. 

By this time, however, each heartily repented 
of their vow, their resentment was at an end, and 
their love began to return ; they wished the fiddle- 
case away, but both had too much spirit to begin. 
One night, however, as they were both lying 
awake with the detested fiddle-case between them, 
the husband happened to sneeze, to which the 
wife, as is usual in such cases, bid God bless him ; 
' Ay, but,' returns the husband, ' woman, do you 
say that from you heart V — ' Indeed, I do, my poor 
Nicholas,' cried his wife, 'I say it with all my 
heart.' — 'If so, then,' says the husband, 'we had 
as good remove the fiddle-case.' 



LETTER LXVII. 

From the same. 

Books/ my son, while they teach us to respect 
the interest of others, often make us unmindful 
of our own; while they instruct the youthful 
reader to grasp at social happiness, he grows 
miserable in detail, and attentive to universal 
harmony, often forgets that he himself has a part 
to sustain in the concert. I dislike, therefore, the 
philosopher who describes the inconveniences of 
life in such pleasing colours, that the pupil grows 
enamoured of distress, longs to try the charms of 
poverty, meets it without dread, nor fears its in- 
conveniencies till he severely feels them. 

A youth, who has thus spent his life among 
books, new to the world, and unacquainted with 
man, but by philosophic information, may be con- 
sidered as a being whose mind is filled with the 
vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly unqualified for 
a journey through life, yet confident of his own 
skill in the direction, he sets out with confidence, 
blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last 
undone. 

He first has learned from books, and then lays 
it down as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous 
or vicious in excess ; and he has been long taught 
to detest vice, and love virtue : warm, therefore, 
in attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats 
every creature as a friend or foe; expects from 
those he loves unerring integrity, and consigns 
his enemies to the reproach of wanting every 
virtue. On this principle he proceeds ; and here 
begin his disappointments : upon a closer inspec- 
tion of human nature, he perceives, that he should 
have moderated his friendship, and softened his 
severity ; for he often finds the excellencies of one 
part of mankind clouded with vice, and the faults 
of the other brightened with virtue; he finds no 
character so sanctified that has not its failings; 
none so infamous, but has somewhat to attract 
our esteem; he beholds impiety in lawn, and 
fidelity in fetters. 

He now therefore, but too late, perceives that 
his regards should have been more cool, and his 
hatred less violent; that the truly wise seldom 
court romantic friendships with the good, and 
avoid, if possible, the resentment even of the 
wicked : every moment gives him fresh instances 



74 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



that the bonds of friendship are broken if drawn 
too closely, and that those -whom he has treated 
with disrespect, more than retaliate the injury: at 
length, therefore, he is obliged to confess, that he 
has declared war upon the vicious half of man- 
kind, without being able to form an alliance 
among the virtuous to espouse his quarrel. 

Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now 
too far advanced to recede; and though poverty 
be the just consequence of the many enemies his 
conduct has created, yet he is resolved to meet it 
without shrinking: philosophers have described 
poverty in most charming colours; and even his 
vanity is touched, in thinking, that he shall show 
the world, in himself, one more example of pa- 
tience, fortitude, and resignation. ' Come, then, 
O poverty! for what is there in thee dreadful to 
the wise? temperance, health, and frugality, walk 
in thy train; cheerfulness and liberty are ever 
thy companions. Shall any be ashamed of thee, 
of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed? the 
running brook, the herbs of the field, can amply 
satisfy nature ; man wants but little, nor that 
little long. Come then, O poverty, while kings 
stand by, and gaze with admiration at the true 
philosopher's resignation.' 

The goddess appears; for Poverty ever comes 
at the call: but, alas! he finds her by no means 
the charming figure books and his warm imagina- 
tion had painted. As when an eastern bride, 
whom her friends and relations had long described 
as a model of perfection, pays her first visit, the 
longing bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he 
had never seen before ; but instead of a coun- 
tenance blazing with beauty like the sun, he be- 
holds deformity shooting icicles to his heart; 
such appears Poverty to ner new entertainer : ajl 
the fabric of enthusiasm is at. once demolished, 
and a thousand miseries rise upon its ruins, while 
Contempt, with pointing finger, is foremost in the 
hideous procession. 

The poor man now finds that he can get no 
kings to look at him while he is eating; he finds 
that in proportion as he grows poor, the world 
turns its back upon him, and gives him leave to 
act the philosopher in all the majesty of solitude. 
It might be agreeable enough to play the phi- 
losopher, while we are conscious that mankind 
are spectators; but what signifies wearing the 
mask of sturdy contentment, and mounting the 
stage of restraint, when not one creature will 
assist at the exhibition ! Thus is he forsaken of 
men, while his fortitude wants the satisfaction 
even of self-applause; for either he does not feel 
his present calamities, and that is natural insen- 
sibility, or he disguises his feelings, and that is 
dissimulation. 

Spleen now begins to take up the man; not dis- 
tinguishing in his resentments, he regards all 
mankind with detestation, and commencing man- 
hater, seeks solitude to be at liberty to rail. 

It has been said, that he who retires to solitude, 
is either a beast or an angel : the censure is too 
severe, and the praise unmerited; the discon- 
tented being, who retires from society, is generally 
some good-natured man, who has begun life with- 
out experience, and knew not how to gain it in 
his intercourse with mankind. Adieu. 



LETTER LXVIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

I formerly acquainted thee, most grave Fum, 
with the excellence of the English in the art of 
healing. The Chinese boast their skill in pulses, 
.the Siamese their botanical knowledge; but the 
English advertising physicians alone, of being the 
great restorers of health, the dispensers of youth, 
and the insurers of longevity. I can never 
enough admire the sagacity of this country, for 
the encouragement given to the professors of this 
art; with what indulgence does she foster up 
those of her «wn growth, and kindly cherish those 
that come from abroad! Like a skilful gardener, 
she invites them from every foreign climate to 
herself. Here every great exotic strikes root as 
soon as imported, and feels the genial beam of 
favour; while the metropolis, like one vast mag- 
nificent dunghill, receives them indiscriminately 
to her .breast, and supplies each with more than 
native nourishment. 

In other countries the physician pretends to 
cure disorders in the lump ; the same doctor who 
combats the gout in the toe, shall pretend to pre- 
scribe for a pain in the head ; and he who at one 
time cures a consumption, shall at another give 
drugs for a dropsy. How absurd and ridiculous ! 
this is being a mere jack-of-all- trades. Is the 
animal machine less complicated than a brass 
pin? Not less than ten different hands are re- 
quired to make a pin? and shall the body be set 
right by one single operator ? 

The English are sensible of the force of this 
reasoning; they have therefore one doctor for the 
eyes, another for the toes ; they have their sciatica 
doctors, and inoculating doctors; they have one 
doctor who is modestly content with securing 
them from bugbites, and five hundred who pre- 
scribe for the bite of mad dogs. 

The learned are not here retired with vicious 
modesty from public view ; for every dead wall is 
covered with their names, their abilities, their 
amazing cures, and places of abode. Few patients 
can escape falling into their hands, unless blasted 
by lightning or struck dead with some sudden dis- 
order: it may sometimes happen, that a stranger 
who does not understand English, or a country- 
man who cannot read, dies without ever hearing 
of the vivifying drops, or restorative electuary; 
but, for my part, before I was a week in town, I 
had learned to bid the whole catalogue of disorders 
defiance, and was perfectly acquainted with the 
names and medicines of every great man, or great 
woman, of them all. 

But as nothing pleases curiosity more than 
anecdotes of the great, however minute or trifling, 
I must present you, inadequate as my abilities 
are to the subject, with some account of those 
personages who lead in this honourable profession. 

The first upon the list of glory is doctor Richard 
Rock, F.U.N. This great man, is short of stature, 
is fat, and waddles as he walks. He always wears 
a white three-tailed wig, nicely combed, and 
frizzed upon each cheek. Sometimes he carries 
a cane, but a hat never; it is indeed very remark- 
able, that this extraordinary personage should 
never wear a hat, but so it is he never wears a 
hat. He is usually drawn at the top of his own 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



75 



bills, sitting in his arm-chair, holding a little 
bottle between his finger and thumb, and sur- 
rounded with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, pacquets, 
and gally-pots. No man can promise fairer nor 
better than he ; for as he observes, ' Be your dis- 
order never so far gone, be under no uneasiness,, 
make yourself quite easy, I can cure you.' 

The next in fame, though by some reckoned of 
equal pretensions, is doctor Timothy Franks, 
F.O.G.H., living in a place called the Old Bailey. 
As Bock is remarkably squab, his great rival 
Franks is as remarkably tall. He was born in 
the year of the Christian era 1692, and is, while I 
now write, exactly sixty-eight years, three months, 
and four days old. Age, however, has no ways 
impaired his usual health and vivacity ; I am told, 
he generally walks with his breast open. This 
gentleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is par- 
ticularly remarked for a becoming assurance, 
which carries him gently through life ; for, except 
doctor Rock, none are more blest with the ad- 
vantages of face, than doctor Franks. 

And yet the great have their foibles as well as 
the little. I am almost ashamed to mention it. 
Let the foibles of the great rest in peace. Yet I 
must impart the whole to my friend. These two 
great men are actually now at variance; yes, my 
dear Fum Hoam, by the head of our grandfather, 
they are now at variance like mere men, mere 
common mortals. The champion Bock, advises 
the public to beware of bog-trotting quacks : while 
Franks retorts the wit and the sarcasm (for they 
Doth have a world of wit) by fixing on his rival 
the odious appellation of Dumplin Dick. He calls 
the serious doctor Bock, Dumplin Dick. Head 
of Confucius, what profanation! Dumplin Dick I 
What a pity, ye powers, that the learned, who 
were born mutually to assist in enlightening the 
world, should thus differ among themselves, and 
make even the profession ridiculous I Sure, the 
world is wide enough, at least, for two great per- 
sonages to figure in ; men of science should leave 
controversy to the little world below them; and 
then we might see Bock and Franks walking toge- 
ther hand in hand, smiling onward to immortality. 

Next to these is doctor Walker, preparator of 
his own medicines. This gentleman is remark- 
able for his aversion to quacks ; frequently cau- 
tioning the public to be careful into what hands 
they commit their safety ; by which . he would 
insinuate, that if they do not employ him 
alone, they must be undone. His public spirit 
is equal to his success. Not for himself, but his 
country, is the gally-pot prepared and the drops 
sealed up, with proper directions for any part of 
the town or country. All this is for his country's 
good : so that he has now grown old in the practice 
of physic and virtue; and, to use his own elegance 
of expression, 'There is not such another me- 
dicine as his in the world again.' 

This, my friend, is a formidable triumvirate; 
and yet, formidable as they are, I am resolved to 
defend the honour of Chinese physic against them 
all. I have made a vow to summon doctor Bock 
to a solemn disputation in all the mysteries of the 
profession, before the face of every philomath, 
student in astrology, and member of the learned 
societies. I adhere to, and venerate the doc- 
trines of old Wang-sku-ho. In the very teeth 
of opposition I will maintain, ' That the heart 
is the son of the liver, which hath the kid- 
neys for its mother, and the stomach for its 



wife.' * I have, therefore, drawn up a disputation 
challenge, which is to be sent speedily, to this effect : 
' I, Lien Chi Altangi, D. N. B. P., native of 
Honan in China, to Bichard Bock, F. U. N., 
native of Garbage-Alley, in Wapping, defiance. 
Though, sir, I am perfectly sensible of your im- 
portance, though no stranger to your studies in 
the path of nature, yet there may be many things 
in the art of physic, with which you are yet un- 
acquainted. I know full well a doctor thou art, 
great Bock, and so am I. Wherefore I challenge, 
and do hereby invite you to a trial of learning 
upon hard problems, and knotty physical points. 
In this debate we will calmly investigate the 
whole theory and practice of medicine, botany, 
and chemistry; and I invite all the philomaths, 
with many of the lecturers in medicine, to be 
present at the dispute; which I hope will be 
carried on with due decorum, with proper gravity, 
and as befits men of erudition and science among 
each other. But before we meet face to face, I 
would thus publicly, and in the face of the whole 
world, desire you to answer me one question; I 
ask it with the same earnestness with which 
you have often solicited the public; answer ine, I 
say, at once, without having recourse to your phy- 
sical dictionary, which of those three disorders, 
incident to the human body, is the most fatal, the 
syncope, parenthesis, or apoplexy? I beg your 
reply may be as public as this my demand, t I 
am, as hereafter may be, your admirer, or your 
rival.' Adieu. 



LETTER LXIX. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

Indulgent nature seems to have exempted this 
island from many of those epidemic evils which 
are so fatal in other parts of the world. A want 
of rain but for a few days beyond the expected 
season in China, spreads famine, desolation, and 
terror, over the whole country; the winds that 
blow from the brown bosom of the western desert, 
are impregnated with death in every gale ; but in 
this fortunate land of Britain, the inhabitant 
courts health in every breeze, and the husband- 
man ever sows in joyful expectation. 

But though the nation be exempt from real 
evils, think not, my friend, that it is more happy 
on this account than others. They are afflicted, 
it is true, with neither famine nor pestilence, but 
then there is a disorder peculiar to the country, 
which every season makes strange ravages among 
them; it spreads with pestilential rapidity, and 
infects almost every rank of people ; what is still 
more strange, the natives have no name for this 
peculiar malady; though well known to foreign 
physicians, by the appellation of epidemic terror. 

A season is never known to pass in which the 
people are not visited by this cruel calamity in 
one shape or another, seemingly different, though 
ever the same ; one year it issues from a baker's 
shop in the shape of a sixpenny-loaf, the next it 
takes the appearance of a comet, with a fiery tail, 
a third it threatens like a flat-bottomed boat, and 
a fourth it carries consternation at the bite of a 

* See Du Halde, vol. ii. fol. p. 185. 

t The day after this was published the Editor received 
an answer, in which the doctor seems to be of opinion, that 
the apoplexy is most fatal. 



76 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



mad dog. The people, when once infected, lose 
their relish for happiness, saunter about with 
looks of despondence, ask after the calamities of 
the day, and receive no comfort but in heighten- 
ing each other's distress. It is insignificant how 
remote or near, how weak or powerful the object 
of terror may be, when once they resolve to fright 
and be frightened; the merest trifles sow con- 
sternation and dismay, each proportions his fears, 
not to the object, but to the dread he discovers in 
the countenance of others ; for when once the fer- 
mentation is begun, it goes on of itself, though 
the original cause be discontinued which first set 
it in motion 

A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror 
which now prevails, and the whole nation is at 
present actually groaning under the malignity of 
its influence. The people sally from their houses 
with that circumspection which is prudent in 
such as expect a mad dog at every turning. The 
physician publishes his prescription, the beadle 
prepares his halter, and a few of unusual bravery 
arm themselves with boots and buff gloves, in 
order to face the enemy if he should offer to attack 
them. In short the whole people stand bravely 
upon their defence, and seem by their present 
spirit to show a resolution of not being tamely bit 
by mad dogs any longer. 

Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad 
or not, somewhat resembles the ancient European 
custom of trying witches. The old woman sus 
pected was tied hand and foot, and thrown into 
the water. If she swam, then she was instantly 
carried off to be burnt for a witch ; if she sunk, 
then indeed she was acquitted of the charge, but 
drowned in the experiment. In the same man- 
ner, a crowd gathers round a dog suspected of 
madness, and they begin by teasing the devoted 
animal on every side; if he attempts to stand 
upon the defensive and bite, then he is unani- 
mously found guilty, for a mad dog always snaps 
at every thing; if, on the contrary, he strives to 
escape by running away, then he can expect no 
compassion, for mad dogs always run straight 
forward before them. 

It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like 
me, who have no share in those ideal calamities, 
to mark the stages of this national disease. The 
terror at first feebly enters with a disregarded 
story of a little dog, that had gone through a 
neighbouring village, that was thought to be 
mad by several that had seen him. The next 
account comes that a mastiff ran through a certain 
town, and bit five geese, which immediately ran 
mad, foamed at the bill, and died in great agonies 
soon after. Then comes an affecting history of a 
little boy bit in the leg, and gone down to be dipt 
in the salt water ; when the people have sufficiently 
shuddered at that, they are next congealed with a 
frightful account of a man, who was said lately to 
have died from a bite he had received some years 
before. This relation only prepares the way for 
another, still more hideous, as how the master 
of a family, with seven small children, were all 
bit by a mad lap-dog, and how the poor father 
first perceived the infection by calling for a 
draught of water, where he saw the lap-dog swim- 
ming in the cup. 

When epidemic terror is thus once excited, 
every morning comes loaded with some new dis- 
aster ; as in stories of ghosts, each loves to hear 
the account, though it only serves to make him 



uneasy, so here each listens with eagerness, and 
adds to the tidings with new circumstances of 
peculiar horror. A lady, for instance, in the 
country, of very weak nerves, has been frighted 
by the barking of a dog; and this, alas! too fre- 
quently happens. The story is soon improved 
and spreads, that a mad dog has frighted a lady of 
distinction. These circumstances begin to grow 
terrible before they have reached the neighbouring 
village, and there the report is, that a lady of 
quality was bit by a mad mastiff. This account 
every moment gathers new strength, and grows 
more dismal as it approaches the capital, and by 
the time it has arrived in town, the lady is 
described, with wild eyes, foaming mouth, running 
mad upon all fours, barking like a dog, biting her 
servants, and at last smothered between two beds 
by the advice of her doctors : while the mad mas- 
tiff is in the meantime ranging the whole country 
over, slavering at the mouth, and seeking whom 
he may devour. 

My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little 
credulous, waked me some mornings ago before 
the usual hour, with horror and astonishment in 
her looks; she desired me, if I had any regard for 
my safety, to keep within ; for a few days ago so 
dismal an accident had happened, as to put all the 
world upon their guard. A mad dog down in the 
country, she assured me, had bit a farmer, who 
soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard, and 
bit a fine brindled cow; the cow quickly became 
as mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, 
and raising herself up, walked about on her hind 
legs, sometimes barking like a dog, and sometimes 
attempting to talk like the farmer. Upon exa- 
mining the grounds of this story, I found my 
landlady had it from one neighbour, who heard 
it from very good authority. 

Were most stories of this nature thoroughly 
examined, it would be found that numbers of 
such as have been said to suffer, were no way 
injured, and that of those who have been actually 
bitten, not one in a hundred was bit by a mad 
dog. Such accounts, in general, therefore, only 
serve to make the people miserable by false ter- 
rors, and sometimes fright the patient into actual 
frenzy, by creating those very symptoms they pre- 
tend to deplore. 

But even allowing three or four to die in a 
season of this terrible death (and four is probably 
too large a concession), yet still it is not con- 
sidered, how many are preserved in their health 
and in their property by this devoted animal's 
services. The midnight robber is kept at a dis- 
tance; the insidious thief is often detected, the 
healthful chase repairs many a worn constitution, 
and the poor man finds in his dog a willing assist- 
ant, eager to lessen his toils, and content with the 
smallest retribution. 

'A dog,' says one of the English poets, 'is an 
honest creature, and I am a friend to dogs,' Of 
all the beasts that graze the lawn, or hunt the 
forest, a dog is the only animal, that, leaving Jtiis 
fellows, attempts to cultivate the friendship of 
man; to man he looks in all his necessities with a 
speaking eye for assistance ; exerts for him all the 
little service in his power with cheerfulness and 
pleasure ; for him bears famine and fatigue with 
patience and resignation; no injuries can abate 
his fidelity, no distress induce him to forsake his 
benefactor: studious to please, and fearing to 
offend, he is still a humble, steadfast dependent, 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How- 
unkind then to torture this faithful creature, who 
has left the forest to claim the protection of man j 
how ungrateful a return to the trusty animal for 
all his services. Adieu. 



LETTER LXX. 
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, by way of Moscow. 

The Europeans are themselves blind, who describe 
Fortune without sight. No first-rate beauty had 
ever finer eyes, or saw more clearly; they who 
have no other trade but seeking their fortune, 
need never hope to find her; coquette like, she 
flies from her close pursuers, and at last fixes on 
the plodding mechanic, who stays at home, and 
minds his business. 

I am amazed how men call her blind, when, 
by the company she keeps, she seems so very dis- 
cerning. Wherever you see a gaming-table, be 
very sure Fortune is not there ; wherever you see 
a house with the doors open, be very sure Fortune 
is not there ; when you see a man whose pocket- 
holes are laced with gold, be satisfied Fortune is 
not there; wherever you see a beautiful woman 
good-natured and obliging, be convinced Fortune 
is never there. In short, she is ever seen accom- 
panying industry ; and as often trundling a wheel- 
barrow as lolling in a coach and six. 

If you would make Fortune your friend, or to 
personize her no longer, if you desire, my son, to 
be rich and have money, be more eager to save 
than to acquire : when people say, money is to 
be got here and money is to be got there, take 
no notice ; mind your own business ; stay where 
you are ; and secure all • you can get, without stir- 
ring. When you hear that your neighbour has 
picked up a purse of gold in the street, never run 
out into the same street, looking about you, in 
order to pick up such another ; or when you are in- 
formed, that he has made a fortune in one branch 
of business, never change your own in order to be 
his rival. Do not desire to be rich all at once ; 
but patiently add farthing to farthing. Perhaps 
you despise the petty sum ; and yet they who want 
a farthing, and have no friend that will lend them 
it, think farthings very good things. Whang, the 
foolish miller, when he wanted a farthing in his 
distress, found that no friend would lend, because 
they knew he wanted. Did you ever read the 
story of Whang in our books of Chinese learning ; 
he, who despising small sums, and grasping at 
all, lost even what he had? 

Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious ; 
nobody loved money better than he, or more 
respected those that had it. When people would 
talk of a rich man in company, Whang would 
say, I know him very well ; he and I have been 
long acquainted; he and I are intimate; he stood 
for a child of mine. But if ever a poor man was 
mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the 
man ; he might be very well for aught he knew ; 
but he was not fond of many acquaintances, and 
loved to choose his company. 

Whang, however, with all his eagerness for 
riches, was in reality poor, he had nothing but the 
profits of his mill to support him, but though 
these were small they were certain; while his 
mill stood and went, he was sure of eating, and 
his frugality was such, that he every day laid 



some money by, which he would at intervals 
count and contemplate with much satisfaction. 
Yet still his acquisitions were not equal to his 
desires, he only found himself above want, whereas 
he desired to be possessed of affluence. 

One day as he was indulging thece wishes, he 
was informed that a neighbour of his had found a 
pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it 
three nights running before. These tidings were 
daggers to the heart of poor Whang. — ' Here am 
I,' says he, ' toiling and moiling from morning till 
night, for a few paltry farthings, while neighbour 
Hunks only goes quietly to bed, and dreams him- 
self into thousands before morning. O that I 
could dream like him! with what pleasure would 
I dig round the pan ! how slily would I carry it 
home; not even my wife should see me! and 
then, O the pleasure of thrusting one's hand into 
a heap of gold up to the elbow !' 

Such reflections only served to make the miller 
unhappy ; he discontinued his former assiduity, 
he was quite disgusted with small gains, and his 
customers began to forsake him. Every day he 
Etspealed the wish, and every night laid himself 
Sown in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a 
long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to 
smile upon his distresses, and indulged him with 
the wished for vision. He dreamed, that under 
a certain part of the foundation of his mill, there 
was concealed a monstrous pan of gold and dia- 
monds, buried deep in the ground, and covered 
with a large flat stone. He rose up, thanked the 
stars, that were at last pleased to take pity on his 
sufferings, and concealed his good luck from 
every person, as is usual in money dreams, in 
order to have the vision repeated the two succeed- 
ing nights, by which he should be certain of its- 
veracity ; his wishes in this were also answered, 
he still dreamed of the same pan of money, in the- 
very same place. 

Now, therefore, it was past a doubt ; so getting 
up early the third morning, he repairs alone, 
with a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and be- 
gan to undermine that part of the wall which the 
vision directed. The first omen of success that 
he met was a broken mug ; digging still deeper, 
he turns up a house tile, quite new and entire. 
At last, after much digging, he came to the broad 
flat stone, but then so large, that it was beyond 
one man's strength to remove it. ' Here,' cried 
he, in raptures to himself, ' here it is ; under this 
stone there is room for a very large pan of dia- 
monds indeed. I must even go home to my wife, 
and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist 
me in turning it up. Away therefore he goes, and 
acquaints his wife with every circumstance of 
their good fortune. Her raptures on this occa- 
sion easily may be imagined, she flew round his 
neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy; but 
those transports, however, did not delay their ea- 
gerness to know the exact sum ; returning there- 
fore speedily together to the place where Whang 
had been digging, there they found— not indeed 
the expected treasure, but the mill, their only 
support, undermined and fallen. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXI. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy of Pekin, in China. 

The people of London are as fond of walking, 



78 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



as our friends at Pekin, are of riding ; one of the 
principal entertainments of the citizens here in 
summer, is to repair about nightfall to a garden 
not far from town, where they walk about, show 
their best clothes, and best faces, and listen to a 
concert provided for the occasion. 

I accepted an invitation a few evenings ago 
from my old friend, the man in black, to be one 
of a party that was to sup there, and, at the ap- 
pointed hour, waited upon him at his lodgings. 
There I found the company assembled, and ex- 
pecting my arrival. Our party consisted of my 
friend in superlative finery, his stockings rolled, 
a black velvet waistcoat which was formerly new, 
and his grey wig combed down in imitation of 
hair. A pawnbroker's widow, of whom, by the 
bye, my friend was a professed admirer, dressed 
out in green damask, with three gold rings on 
every finger, Mr. Tibbs, the second-rate beau I 
have formerly described, together with his lady, 
in flimsy silk, dirty gauze instead of linen, and a 
hat as big as an umbrella. 

Our first difficulty was in settling how we 
should set out. Mrs. Tibbs had a natural aver- 
sion to the water, and the widow being a little in 
flesh, as warmly protested against walking; a 
coach was therefore agreed upon ; which being 
too small to carry five, Mr. Tibbs consented to sit 
in his wife's lap. 

In this manner, therefore, we set forward, being 
entertained by the way with the bodings of Mr. 
Tibbs, who assured us he did not expect to see a 
single creature for the evening, above the degree 
of a cheesemonger ; that this was the last night 
of the gardens, and that consequently we should 
be pestered with the nobility and gentry from 
Thames-street, and Crooked-lane, with several 
other prophetic ejaculations, probably inspired by 
the uneasiness of his situation. 

The illuminations began before we arrived, and 
I must confess, that upon entering the gardens, 
I found every sense overpaid with more than ex- 
pected pleasure; the lights every where glim- 
mering through the scarcely moving trees; the 
full-bodied concert bursting on the stillness of the 
night; the natural concert of the birds in the more 
retired part of the grove, vying with that which 
was formed by art ; the company gaily dressed, 
looking satisfaction, and the tables spread with 
various delicacies, all conspired to fill my ima- 
gination with the visionary happiness of the Ara- 
bian lawgiver, and lifted me into an ecstasy of 
admiration. ' Head of Confucius,' cried I to my 
friend, ' this is fine ! this unites rural beauty with 
courtly magnificence ; if we expect the virgins of 
immortality that hang on every tree, and may'be 
plucked at every desire, I don't see how this falls 
short of Mahomet's paradise !' — ' As for virgins,' 
cries my friend, ' it is true they are a fruit that 
don't much abound in our gardens here : but if 
ladies, as plenty as apples in autumn, and as 
complying as any houri of them all, can content 
you, I fancy we have no need to go to heaven for 
paradise.' 

I was going to second his remarks, when we 
were called to a consultation by Mr. Tibbs and 
the rest of the company, to know in what manner 
we were to lay out the evening to the greatest 
advantage. Mrs. Tibbs was for keeping the genteel 
waJc of the garden, where, she observed, there 
was always the very best company ; the widow, 
on., the contrary, who came but once a season, 



was for securing a good standing-place to see the 
water-works, which she assured us would begin 
in less than an hour at farthest ; a dispute there- 
fore began, and as it was managed between two 
of very opposite characters, it threatened to grow 
more bitter at every reply. Mrs. Tibbs wondered 
how people could pretend to know the polite 
world, who had received all their rudiments of 
breeding behind a compter ; to which the other 
replied, that though some people sat behind comp- 
ters, yet they could sit at the head of their own 
tables too, and carve three good dishes of hot 
meat whenever they thought proper, which was 
more than some people could say for themselves, 
that hardly knew a rabbit and onions from a 
green goose and gooseberries. 

It is hard to say where this might have ended, 
had not the husband, who probably knew the im- 
petuosity of his wife's disposition, proposed to end 
the dispute by adjourning to a box, and try if 
there was any thing to be had for supper that was 
supportable. To this we all consented ; but here 
a new distress arose, Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs would 
sit in none but a genteel box, a box where they 
might see and be seen, one, as they expressed it, 
in the very focus of public view ; but such a box 
was not easy to be obtained, for though we were 
perfectly convinced of our own gentility, and the 
gentility of our appearance, yet we found it a 
difficult matter to persuade the keepers of the 
boxes to be of our opinion ; they chose to reserve 
genteel boxes for what they judged more genteel 
company. 

At last, however, we were fixed, though some- 
what obscurely, and supplied with the usual en- 
tertainment of the place. The widow found every 
thing excellent, but Mrs. Tibbs thought every 
thing detestable : ' Come, come, my dear,' cries 
her husband, by way of consolation, ' to be sure 
we can't fi*d such dressing here as we have at 
lord Crump's, or lady Crimp's ; but for Vauxhall 
dressing it is pretty good ; it is not their victuals, 
indeed, I find fault with, but their wine; their 
wine,' cries he, drinking off a glass, ' indeed, is 
most abominable.' 

By this last contradiction, the widow was fairly 
conquered in point of politeness. She perceived 
now, that she had no pretensions in the world to 
taste, her very senses were vulgar, since she had 
praised detestable custards, and smacked wretch- 
ed wine ; she was therefore content to yield the 
victory, and for the rest of the night to listen and 
improve. It is true, she would now and then 
forget herself, and confess she was pleased, but 
they soon brought her back again to miserable 
refinement. She once praised the painting of the 
box in which we were sitting, but was soon con- 
vinced, that such paltry pieces ought rather to 
excite horror than satisfaction ; she ventured 
again to commend one of the singers, but Mrs. 
Tibbs soon let her know, in the style of a connois- 
seur, that the singer in question had neither ear, 
voice, nor judgment. 

Mr. Tibbs, now willing to prove that his wife's 
pretensions to music were just, entreated her to 
favour the company with a song ; but to this she 
gave a positive denial ; ' For you know very well, 
my dear,' says she, ' that I am not in voice to- 
day, and when one's voice is not equal to one's 
judgment, what signifies singing; besides, as 
Vhere is no accompaniment, it would be but spoil- 
ing music' All these excuses, however, were 



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79 



over-ruled by the rest of the company, who, 
though one would think they already had music 
enough, joined in the entreaty. But particularly 
the widow, now willing to convince the company 
of her breeding, pressed so warmly, that she 
seemed determined to take no refusal. At last, 
then, the lady complied, and after humming for 
some minutes, began with such a voice, and such 
affectation, as I could perceive gave but little sa- 
tisfaction to any except her husband. He sat 
with rapture in his eye, and beat time with his 
hand on the table. 

You must observe, my friend, that it is the 
custom of this country, when a lady or gentleman 
happens to sing, for the company to sit as mute 
and motionless as statues. Every feature, every 
limb must seem to correspond in fixed attention, 
and while the song continues, they are to remain 
in a state of universal petrefaction. In this mor- 
tifying situation we had continued for some time, 
listening to the song, and looking with tranquil- 
lity, when the master of the box came to infonn 
us, that the water-works were going to begin. 
At this information, I could instantly perceive 
the widow bounce from her seat ; but correcting 
herself, she sat down again, repressed by mo- 
tives of good-breeding. Mrs. Tibbs, who had 
seen the water-works a hundred times, resolving 
not to be interrupted, continued her song without 
any share of mercy, nor had the smallest pity on 
our impatience. The widow's face, I own, gave 
me high entertainment ; in it I could plainly read 
the struggle she felt between good-breeding and 
curiosity; she talked of the water-works the 
whole evening before, and she seemed to have 
come merely in order to see them ; but then she 
could not bounce out in the very middie 01 a song, 
for that would be forfeiting all pretensions to high 
life, or high-lived company, ever after. Mrs. 
Tibbs, therefore, kept on singing, and we conti- 
nued to listen, till at last, when the song was just 
concluded, the waiter came in to inform us, that 
the water-works were over. 

' The water- works over!' cried the widow; 
' the water-works over already ! that's impossi- 
ble, they can't be over so soon !' — ' It is not my 
business,' replied the fellow, ' to contradict your 
ladyship, I'll run again and see ;' he went and 
soon returned with a confirmation of the dismal 
tidings. No ceremony could now bind my friend's 
"disappointed mistress, she testified her displea- 
sure in the openest manner ; in short, she now 
began to find fault in turn, and, at last, insisted 
upon going home, just at the time that Mr. and 
Mrs. Tibbs assured the company that the polite 
hours were going to begin, and that the ladies 
would instantaneously be entertained with the 
horns. Adieu. 

LETTER LXXII. 

From the same. 

Not far from this city lives a poor tinker, who 
has educated seven sons, all at this very time in 
arms and fighting for their country; and what 
reward do you think has the tinker from the state 
for such important service? None in the world; 
his sons, when the war is over, may probably be 
whipped from parish to parish as vagabonds ; and 
the old man, when past labour, may die a prisoner 
in some house of correction. 



Such a worthy subject in China would be held 
in universal reverence; his service would be re- 
warded, if not with dignities, at least with an ex- 
emption from labour ; he would take the left hand 
at feasts, and mandarines themselves would be 
proud to show their submission. The English 
laws punish vice; the Chinese laws do more, they 
reward virtue. 

Considering the little encouragement given to 
matrimony here, I am not surprised at the dis- 
couragement given to propagation. "Would you 
believe it, my dear Fum Hoam, there are laws 
made which even forbid the people's marrying 
each other? By the head of Confucius, I jest 
not ; there are such laws in being here ; and yet 
their law-givers have neither been instructed 
among the Hottentots, nor imbibed their prin- 
ciples of equity from the natives of Anamaboo. 

There are laws which ordain, that no man shall 
marry a woman contrary to her own. consent. 
This, though contrary to what we are taught in 
Asia, and though in some measure a clog upon 
matrimony, I have no great objection to. There 
are laws which ordairi, that no woman shall 
marry against her father and mother's consent, 
unless arrived at an age of maturity; by which is 
understood those years when women, with us, are 
generally past child-bearing. This must be a 
clog upon matrimony, as it is more difficult for 
the lover to please three than one, and much more 
difficult to please old. people than young ones. 
The laws ordain, that the consenting couple shall 
take a long time to consider before they marry; 
this is a very great clog, because people love to 
have all rash actions done in a hurry. It is 
ordained, that all marriages shall be proclaimed 
before celebration; this is a severe clog, as many 
are ashamed to have their marriage made public, 
from motives of vicious modesty, and many afraid 
from views of temporal interest. It is ordained, 
that there is nothing sacred in the ceremony, but 
that it may be dissolved, to all intents and pur- 
poses, by the authority of any civil magistrate. 
And yet, opposite to this, it is ordained, that the 
priest shall be paid a large sum of money for 
granting his sacred permission. 

Thus you see, my friend, that matrimony here 
is hedged round with so many obstructions, that 
those who are willing to break through or sur- 
mount them must be contented, if at last they 
find it a bed of thorns. The laws are not to 
blame, for they have deterred the people from en- 
gaging as much as they could. It has indeed 
become a very serious affair in England, and none 
but serious people are generally found willing to 
engage. The young, the gay, and the beautiful, 
who have motives of passion only to induce them, 
are seldom found to embark, as those induce- 
ments are taken away; and none but the old, the 
ugly, and the mercenary, are seen to unite ; who, 
if they have any posterity at all, will probably be 
an ill-favoured race like themselves. 

What gave rise to those laws might have been 
some such accidents as these. It sometimes hap- 
pened that a miser, who had spent all his youth 
in scraping up money to give his daughter such a 
fortune as might get her a mandarine husband, 
found his expectations disappointed at last, by 
her running away with his footman: this must 
have been a sad shock to the poor disconsolate 
parent, to see his poor daughter in a one horse 
chaise, when he had designed her for a coach and 



80 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



six. What a stroke from Providence ! to see his 
dear money go to enrich a beggar; all nature cried 
out at the profanation ! 

It sometimes happened, also, that a lady, who 
had inherited all the titles and all the nervous 
complaints of nobility, thought fit to impair her 
dignity, and mend her constitution, by marrying 
a farmer; this must have been a sad shock to her 
inconsolable relations, to see so fine a flower 
snatched from a flourishing family, and planted 
in a dunghill ; this was an absolute inversion of 
the first principles of things. 

In order, therefore, to prevent the great from 
being thus contaminated by vulgar alliances, the 
obstacles to matrimony have been so contrived, 
that the rich only can marry among the rich ; and 
the poor, who would leave celibacy, must be con- 
tent to increase their poverty with a wife. Thus 
have the laws fairly inverted the inducements to 
matrimony: nature tells us, that beauty is the 
proper allurement of those who are rich, and 
money of those who are poor; but things here 
are so contrived, that the rich are invited to 
marry by that fortune which they do not want, 
and the poor have no inducement but that beauty 
which they do not feel. 

An equal diffusion of riches through any country 
ever constitutes its happiness. Great wealth in 
the possession of one stagnates, and extreme po- 
verty with another keeps him in unambitious 
indigence ; but the moderately rich are generally 
active ; not too far removed from poverty, to fear 
its calamities; nor too near extreme wealth, to 
slacken the nerve of labour; they remain still 
between both, in a state of continual fluctuation. 
How impolitic, therefore, are those laws which 
promote the accumulation of wealth among the 
rich, more impolitic still, in attempting to increase 
the depression on poverty ! 

Bacon, the English philosopher, compares money 
to manure ; ' If gathered in heaps,' says he, ' it 
does no good ; on the contrary, it becomes offen- 
sive: but being spread, though never so thinly, 
over the surface of the earth, it enriches the whole 
country.' Thus the wealth a nation possesses 
must expatiate, or it is of no benefit to the public ; 
it becomes rather a grievance, where matrimonial 
laws thus confine it to a few. 

But this restraint upon matrimonial commu- 
nity, even considered in a physical light, is in- 
jurious. As those who rear up animals take all 
possible pains to cross the strain, in order to 
improve the breed; so, in those countries where 
marriage is most free, the inhabitants are found 
every age to improve in stature and in beauty; on 
the contrary, where it is confined to a caste, a 
tribe, or a horde, as among the Gaurs, the Jews, or 
the Tartars, each division soon assumes a family 
likeness, and every tribe degenerates into peculiar 
deformity. From hence it may be easily inferred, 
that if the mandarines here are resolved only to 
marry among each other, they will soon produce a 
posterity with mandarine faces ; and we shall see 
the heir of some honourable family scarce equal 
to the abortion of a country farmer. 

These are a few of the obstacles to marriage 
here, and it is certain they have in some measure 
answered the end; for celibacy is both frequent and 
fashionable. Old bachelors appear abroad without 
a mask, and old maids, my dear Fum Hoam, 
have been absolutely known to ogle. To confess 
in friendship, if I were an Englishman, I fancy I 



should be an old bachelor myself; 1 should never 
find courage to run through all the adventures 
prescribed by the law. I could submit to court my 
mistress herself, upon reasonable terms. But to 
eourt her father, her mother, and a long tribe ol 
cousins, aunts, and relations, and then stand the 
butt of a whole country church, I would as soon 
turn tail, and make love to her grandmother. 

I can conceive no sther reason for thus loading 
matrimony with so many prohibitions, unless it 
be that the country was thought already too popu- 
lous, and this was found to be the most effectual 
means of thinning it. If this was the motive, I 
cannot but congratulate the wise projectors on 
the success of their scheme. Hail, ye dim- 
sighted politicians, ye weeders of men! It is 
yours to clip the wing of industry, and convert 
Hymen to a broker. It is yours to behold small 
objects with a microscopic eye, but to be blind to 
those which require an extent of vision. It is 
yours, O ye discern ers of mankind, to lay the line 
between society, and weaken that force by di- 
viding, which should bind with united vigour. 
It is yours, to introduce national real distress, in 
order to avoid the imaginary distresses of a few. 
Your actions can be justified by a hundred reasons 
like truth, they can be opposed but by a few 
reasons, and those reasons are true. Farewell. 




1 Great father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five »,r\r 
old, who was ahut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-mo. ' 



LETTER LXXIII. 



From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyments of life, increases 
our desire of living. Those dangers, which in the 
vigour of youth we had learned to despise, assume 
new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increas- 
ing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the 
prevailing passion of the mind ; and the small re- 
mainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to 
keep off our end, or provide for a continual exist- 
ence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to 
which even the wise are liable ! If I should judge 
of that part of life which lies before me, by that 
which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. 



THE CITZEN OF THE AVORLD. 



81 



Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments 
have brought no real felicity ; and sensation as- 
sures me, that those I have felt are stronger than 
those which are yet to come. Yet experience and 
sensation in vain persuade; hope, more poVerfu. 
than either, dresses out the distant prospect in 
fancied beauty; some happiness in long perspec- 
tive still beckons me to pursue; and, like a losing 
gamester, every new disappointment increases my 
ardour to continue the game. 

Whence, my friend, this increased love of life, 
which grows upon us with our years ; whence 
comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to pre- 
serve our existence, at a period when it becomes 
scarce worth the keeping? Is it that nature, 
attentive to the preservation of mankind, increases 
our wishes to live, while she lessens our enjoy- 
ments ; and, as she robs the senses of every plea- 
sure, equips imagination in the spoil? Life would 
be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded with 
infirmities, feared death no more than when in 
the vigour of manhood ; the numberless calamities 
of decaying nature, and the consciousness of sur- 
viving every pleasure, would at once induce him, 
with his own hand, to terminate the scene of 
misery; but happily the contempt of death for- 
sakes him at a time when it could only be preju- 
dicial; and life acquires an imaginary value, in 
proportion as its real value is no more. 

Our attachment to every object around us in- 
creases, in general, from the length of our ac- 
quaintance with it. ' I would not choose,' says a 
French philosopher, ' to see an old post palled up 
with which I had been long acquainted.' A mind 
long habituated to a certain set of objects, insen- 
sibly becomes fond of seeing them, visits them 
from habit, and parts from them with reluctance ; 
from hence proceeds the avarice of the old in 
every kind of possession. They love the world 
and all that it produces, they love life and all its 
advantages; not because it gives them pleasure, 
but because they have known it long. 

Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of 
China, commanded that all who were unjustly 
detained in prison, during the preceding reigns, 
should be set free. Among the number who 
came to thank their deliverer on this occasion, 
there appeared a majestic old man, who, falling 
at the emperor's feet, addressed him as follows : — 
'Great father of China, behold a wretch, now 
eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dun- 
geon at the age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned, 
though a stranger to crime, or without being even 
confronted by my accusers. I have now lived 
in solitude and darkness for more than fifty years, 
and am grown familiar with distress. As yet 
dazzled with the splendour of that sun to which 
you have restored me, I have been wandering the 
streets to find some friend that would assist, or 
relieve, or remember me; but my friends, my 
family, and relations, are all dead, and I am for- 
gotten. Permit me then, O Chinvang, to wear 
out the wretched remains of life in my former 
prison ; the walls of my dungeon are, to me, more 
pleasing than the most splendid palace; I have 
not long to live, and shall be unhappy except I 
spend the rest of my days where my youth was 
passed; in that prison from whence you was 
pleased to release me.' 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar 
to that we have all for life. "We are habituated to 
the prison, we look round with discontent, are 



displeased with the abode, and yet the length of 
our captivity only increases our fondness for the 
cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we 
have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all 
serve to bind us closer to earth and embitter our 
parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaint- 
ance; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at 
once instructive and amusing; its company pleases, 
yet for all this it is but little regarded. To us, 
who are declined in years, life appears like an old 
friend; its jests have been anticipated informer 
conversation; it has no new story to make us 
smile, no new improvement with which to sur- 
prise, yet still we love it; destitute of every en- 
joyment, still we love it, husband the w r asting 
treasure with increased frugality, and feel all the 
poignancy of anguish in fatal separation. 

Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sin- 
cere, brave, an Englishman. He had a complete 
fortune of his own, and the love of the king his 
master, which was equivalent to riches. Life 
opened all her treasure before him, and promised 
a long succession of future happiness. He came, 
tasted of the entertainment, but was disgusted 
even in the beginning. He professed an aversion 
to living, was tired of walking round the same 
circle ; had tried every enjoyment, and found them 
all grow weaker at every repetition. ' If life be in 
youth so displeasing,' cried he to himself, ' what 
will it appear when age comes on ; if it be at pre- 
sent indifferent, sure it will then be execrable.' 
This thought embittered every reflection; till at 
last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he 
ended the debate with a pistol! Had this self- ! 
deluded man been apprized, that existence grows 
more desirable to us the longer we exist, he 
would have then facea old age without shrinking, 
he would have boldly dared to live, and served 
that society, by his future assiduity, which he 
basely injured by his desertion. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXIV.; 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoarn, first President of ! 
. the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

In reading the newspapers here, I have reckoned 
up not less than twenty-five great men, seventeen 
very great men, and nine very extraordinary men, 
in less than the compass of half a year. These, 
say the gazettes, are the men that posterity are 
to gaze at with admiration; these are the names 
that fame will be employed in holding up for the 
astonishment of succeeding ages. Let me see — 
forty-six great men in half a year amounts just to 
ninety-two in a year. I wonder how posterity 
will be able to remember them all, or whether 
the people, in future times, will have any other 
business to mind, but that of getting the catalogue 
by heart. 

Does the mayor of a corporation make a speech? 
He is instantly set down for a great man. Does 
a pedant digest his common-place book into a 
folio? He quickly becomes great. Does a poet 
string up trite sentiments in rhyme? He also 
becomes the great man of the hour. How di- 
minutive soever the object of admiration, each is 
followed by a crowd of still more diminutive 
admirers. The shout begins in his train, onward 
he marches towards immortality, looks back at 
the pursuing crowd with self-satisfaction; catch- 



82 



goldsmith's miscellaneous wokks. 



ing all the oddities, the wnimsies, the absurdities 
and the littlenesses of conscious greatness, by the 
way. 

I was yesterday invited by a gentleman to 
dinner, who promised that our entertainment 
should consist of a haunch of venison, a turtle, 
and a great man. I came according to appoint- 
ment. The venison was fine, the turtle good, but 
the great man insupportable. The moment I 
ventured to speak, I was at once contradicted 
with a snap. I attempted, by a second and 
a third assault, to retrieve my lost reputation, 
but was still beat back with confusion. I was re- 
solved to attack him once more from entrench- 
ment, and turned the conversation upon the go- 
vernment of China: but even here he asserted, 
snapped, contradicted as before. ' Heavens,' 
thought I, ' this man pretends to know China 
even better than myself!' I looked round to see 
who was on my side, but every eye was fixed in 
admiration on the great man ; I therefore at last 
thought proper to sit silent, and act the pretty 
gentleman during the ensuing conversation. 

When a man has once secured a circle of ad- 
luirers, he maybe as ridiculous here as he thinks 
proper; and it all passes for elevation of sen- 
timent, or learned absence. If he transgresses 
the common forms of breeding, mistakes even a 
tea-pot for a tobacco-box, it is said, that his 
thoughts are fixed on more important objects : to 
speak and act like the rest of mankind, is to be 
no greater than they. There is something of 
oddity in the very idea of greatness, for we are 
seldom astonished at a thing very much resemb- 
ling ourselves. 

When the Tartars make a Lama, their first 
care is to place him in a dark corner of the 
temple ; here he is to sit half concealed from view, 
to regulate the motion of his hands, lips, and 
eyes; but above all, he is enjoined gravity and 
silence. This, however, is but the prelude to his 
apotheosis: a set of emissaries are despatched 
among the people to cry up his piety, gravity, and 
love of raw flesh ; the people take them at their 
word, approach the Lama, now become an idol, 
with the most humble prostration; he receives 
their addresses without motion, commences a 
god, and is ever after fed by his priests with the 
spoon of immortality. The same receipt in this 
country serves to make a great man. The idol 
only keeps close, sends out his little emissaries to 
be hearty in his praise, and straight, whether 
statesman or author, he is set down in the list of 
fame, continues to be praised while it is fashion- 
able to praise, or while he prudently keeps his 
minuteness concealed from the public. 

I have visited many countries, and have„been 
in cities without number, yet never did I enter a 
town which could not produce ten or twelve of 
those little great men: all fancying themselves 
known to the rest of the world, and compliment- 
ing each other upon their extensive reputation. 
It is amusing enough when two of those domestic 
prodigies of learning mount the stage of cere- 
mony, and give and take praise from each other. 
I have been present when a German doctor, for 
having pronounced a panegyric upon a certain 
monk, was thought the most ingenious man in 
the world ; till the monk soon after divided this 
reputation, by returning the compliment; by 
which means they both marched off with uni- 
versal applause. 



The same degree of undeserved adulation that 
attends our great man while living, often also 
follows him to the tomb. It frequently happens, 
that one of his little admirers sits down big with 
the important subject, and is delivered of the his- 
tory of his life and writings. This may probably 
be called the revolutions of a life between the 
fire-side and the easy-chair. In this we learn the 
year in which he was born, at what an early age 
he gave symptoms of uncommon genius and ap- 
plication, together with some of his smart sayings, 
collected by his aunt and mother, while yet but a 
boy. The next book introduces him to the uni- 
versity, where we are informed of his amazing 
progress in learning, his excellent skill in darning 
stockings, and his new invention for papering 
books to save the covers. He next makes his ap- 
pearance in the republic of letters, and publishes 
his folio. Now the colossus is reared, his works 
are eagerly bought up by all the purchasers of 
scarce books. The learned societies invite him to 
become a member; he disputes against some 
foreigner with a long Latin name, conquers in 
the controversy, is complimented by several 
authors of gravity and importance, is excessively 
fond of egg- sauce with his pig, becomes president 
of a literary club, and dies in the meridian of his 
glory. Happy they who thus hare some little 
faithful attendant, who never forsakes them, but 
prepares to wrangle and to praise against every 
opposer; at once ready to increase their pride 
while living, and their character when dead. 
For you and I, my friend, who have no humble 
admirer thus to attend us, we, who neither are, 
nor ever will be great men, and who do not much 
care whether we are great men or no, at least 
let us strive to be honest men, and to have 
common sense. 



LETTER LXXV. 

To the same. 

There are numbers in this city who live by 
writing new books; and yet there are thousands 
of volumes in every large library unread and for- 
gotten. This, upon my arrival, was one of those 
contradictions which I was unable to account for. 
' Is it possible,' said I, 'that there should be any 
demand for new books, before those already pub- 
lished are read? Can there be so many employed 
in producing a commodity with which the market 
is already overstocked ; and with goods also better 
than any of modern manufacture !' 

What at first view appeared an inconsistence, is 
a proof at once of this people's wisdom and re- 
finement. Even allowing the works of their an- 
cestors better written than theirs, yet those of 
the moderns acquire a real value, by being 
marked with the impression of the times. An- 
tiquity has been in the possession of others, the 
present is our own ; let us first, therefore, learn 
to know what belongs to ourselves; and then if 
we have leisure, cast our reflections back to the 
reign of Shonou, who governed twenty thousand 
years before the creation of the moon. 

The volumes of antiquity, like medals, may 
very well serve to amuse the curious; but the 
works of the moderns, like the current coin of a 
kingdom, are much better for immediate use ; the 
former are often prized above their intrinsic 



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83 



■ — ' * r**MK.eiiS»rTBSsr,ism 

value, and kept with care ; the latter seldom pass 
for more than they are worth, and are often sub- 
ject to the merciless hands of sweating critics, 
and clipping compilers : the works of antiquity 
were ever praised, those of the moderns read; 
the treasures of our ancestors have our esteem, 
and we boast the possession ; those of contempo- 
rary genius eivage our heart, although we blush 
to own it. The visits we pay the former resemble 
l those we pay the great ; the ceremony is trouble- 
some, and yet such as he would not choose to 
forego; our acquaintance with modern books 
is like sitting with a friend ; our pride is not 
flattered in the interview, but it gives more inter- 
nal satisfaction. 

In proportion as society refines, new books must 
ever become more necessary. Savage rusticity is 
reclaimed by oral admonition alone ; but the ele- 
gant excesses of refinement are best corrected by 
the still voice of a studious inquiry. In a polite 
age, almost every person becomes a reader, and 
receives more instruction from the press than the 
pulpit. The preaching bonze may instruct the 
illiterate peasant; but nothing less than the 
insinuating address of a fine writer can win its 
way to a heart already relaxed in all the effemi- 
nacy of refinement. Books are necessary to cor- 
rect the vices of the polite ; but those vices are 
ever changing, and the antidote should be changed 
accordingly, should still he new. 

Instead, therefore, of thinking the number of 
new publications here too great, I could wish it 
still greater, as they are the most useful instru- 
ments of reformation Every country must be 
instructed either by writers or preachers ; but as 
the number of readers increases, the number of 
hearers is proportionably diminished, the writer 
becomes more useful, and the preacher bonze less 
necessary. 

Instead, therefore, of complaining that writers 
are overpaid, when their works procure them 
a bare subsistence, I should imagine it the duty 
of a state not only to encourage their numbers, but 
their industry. A bonze is rewarded with im- 
mense riches for instructing only a few, even of 
the most ignorant of the people ; and sure the poor 
scholar should not beg his bread, who is capable 
of instructing a million. 

Of all rewards, I grant, the most pleasing to a 
man of real merit, is fame ; but a polite age, of all 
times, is that in which scarcely any share of merit 
can acquire it. What numbers of fine writers in 
the latter empire of Rome, when refinement was 
carried to the highest pitch, have missed that 
fame and immortality which they had fondly 
arrogated to themselves ? How many Greek au- 
thors, who wrote at that period when Constanti- 
nople was the refined mistress of the empire, now 
rest either not printed, or not read, in the libraries 
of Europe? Those who came first, while either 
state as yet was barbarous, carried all the reputa- 
tion away. Authors, as the age refined, became 
more numerous, and their numbers destroyed 
their fame. It is but natural, therefore, for the 
writer, when conscious that his works will not 
procure him fame hereafter, to endeavour to make 
them turn out to his temporal interest here. 

Whatever be the motives which induce men to 
write, whether avarice or fame, the country be- 
comes most wise and happy, in which they most 
serve for instructors. The countries where sacer- 
dotal instruction alone is permitted, remain in ig- 



norance, superstition, and hopeless slavery. In 
England, where there are as many new books 
published as in all the rest of Europe together, a 
spirit of freedom and reason reigns among the 
people ; they have been often known to act like 
fools, they are generally found to think like men. 

The only danger that attends a multiplicity of 
publications, is that some of them may be calcu- 
lated to injure, rather than benefit society. But 
where writers are numerous, they also serve as a 
check upon each other; and, perhaps, a literary 
inquisition is the most terrible punishment that 
can be conceived to a literary transgressor. 

But to do the English justice, there are but few 
offenders of this kind; their publications, in 
general, aim at mending either the heart, or im- 
proving the common weal. The dullest writer 
talks of virtue, and liberty, and benevolence, with 
esteem; tells his true story, filled with good and 
wholesome advice ; warns against slavery, bribery, 
or the bite of a mad dog ; and dresses up his little 
useful magazines of knowledge and entertainment, 
at least with a good intention. The dunces of 
France, on the other hand, who have less encou- 
ragement, are more vicious. Tender hearts, lan- 
guishing eyes, Leonora in love at thirteen, ecsta- 
tic transports, stolen blisses, are the frivolous 
subjects of their frivolous memoirs. In England, 
if a bawdy blockhead thus breaks in on the com- 
munity, he sets his whole fraternity in a roar; 
nor can he escape, even though he should fly to 
the nobility for shelter. 

Thus even dunces, my friend, may make them- 
selves useful. But there are others whom nature 
has blest with talents above the rest of mankind ; 
men capable of thinking with precision, and im 
pressing their thoughts with rapidity; beings who 
diffuse those regards upon mankind, which others 
contract and settle upon themselves. These de- 
serve every honour from that community of which 
they are more peculiarly the children ; to such I 
would give my heart, since to them I am indebted 
for its humanity! Adieu. 



LETTER LXXVI. 

From Hingpo, to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow. 

I still remain at Terki, where I have received 
that money which was remitted here in order to 
release me from captivity. My fair companion 
still improves in my esteem; the more I know 
her mind, her beauty becomes more poignant; 
she appears charming, even amongst the daughters 
of Circassia. 

Yet were I to examine her beauty with the 
art of a statuary, I should find numbers here 
that far surpass her; nature has not granted her 
all the boasted Circassian regularity of feature, 
and yet she greatly exceeds the fairest of the 
country, in the art of seizing the affections. 
' Whence,' have I often said to myself, ' this re- 
sistless magic that attends even moderate charms : 
though I regard the beauties of the country with 
admiration, every interview weakens the impres- 
sion, but the form of Zelis grows upon my imagi- 
nation, I never behold her without an increase of 
tenderness and respect. Whence this injustice of 
the mind in preferring imperfect beauty to that 
which nature seems to have finished with care ? 
whence the infatuation, that he whom a comet 



84 



goldsms.th's miscellaneous works. 



could not amaze, should be astonished at a meteor ?' 
When reason was thus fatigued to find an answer, 
my imagination pursued the subject, and this was 
the result : 

I fancied myself placed between two landscapes, 
this called the region of beauty, and that the val- 
ley of the graces; the one embellished with all 
that luxuriant nature could bestow ; the fruits of 
various climates adorned the trees, the grove re- 
sounded with music, the gale breathed perfume, 
every charm that could arise from symmetry and 
exact distribution, were here conspicuous, the 
whole offering a prospect of pleasure without end. 
The valley of the graces, on the other hand, 
seemed by no means so inviting ; the streams and 
the groves appeared just as they usually do in 
frequented countries; no magnificent parterres, 
no concert in the grove, the rivulet was edged 
with weeds, and the rock joined its voice to that 
of the nightingale. All was nature and simplicity. 

The most striking objects ever first allure the 
traveller. I entered the region of beauty with 
increased curiosity, and promised myself endless 
satisfaction, in being introduced to the presiding 
goddess. I perceived several strangers who entered 
with the same design; and what surprised me 
not a little, was to see several others hastening to 
leave this abode of seeming felicity. 

After some fatigue, I had at last the honour of 
being introduced to the goddess, who represented 
beauty in person. She was seated on a throne, at 
the foot of which stood several strangers lately 
introduced, like me, all gazing on her form in 
ecstacy. ' Ah, what eyes ! what lips ! how clear 
her complexion! how perfect her shape!' At 
these exclamations, Beauty, with downcast eyes, 
would endeavour to counterfeit modesty, but soon 
again looking round us as if to confirm every 
spectator in his favourable sentiments ; sometimes 
she would attempt to allure us by smiles ; and at 
intervals would bridle back, in order to inspire us 
■with respect as well as tenderness. 

This ceremony lasted for some time, and had so 
much employed our eyes, that we had forgot all 
this while that the goddess was silent. We soon, 
however, began to perceive the defect : ' What,' 
said we among each other, ' are we to have nothing 
but languishing airs, soft looks, and inclinations 
of the head : will the goddess only deign to satisfy 
our eyes?' Upon this one of the company stepped 
up to present her with some fruits he had gathered 
by the way. She received the present, most 
sweetly smiling, and with one of the whitest hands 
in the world, but still not a word escaped her lips. 

I now found that my companions grew weary 
of their homage ; they went off one by one, and 
resolving not to be left behind, I offered to go in 
my turn ; when just at the door of the temple I 
was called back by a female, whose name was 
Pride, and who seemed displeased at the beha- 
viour of the company. ' Where are you hasten- 
ing?' said she to me with an angry air, ' the god- 
dess of beauty is here.' — ' I have been to visit her, 
madam,' replied I, ' and find her more beautiful 
even than report had made her.' — ' And why then 
will you leave her ?' added the female. — ' I have 
seen her long enough,' returned I ; ' I have got 
all her features by heart. The eyes are still the 
same. Her nose is a very fine one, but it is still 
just such a nose now, as it was half an hour ago : 
could she throw a little more mind into her face, 
perhaps I should be for wishing to have more of 



her company.' — ' What signifies,' replied my fe- 
male, 'whether she has a mind or not; has she 
any occasion for a mind, so formed as she is by 
nature ? If she had a common face, indeed, there 
might be some reason for thinking to improve it ; 
but when features are already perfect, every 
alteration would but impair them. A fine face is 
already at the point of perfection, and a fine lady 
should endeavour to keep it so ; the impression it 
would receive from thought, would but disturb 
its whole economy.' 

To this speech I gave no reply, but made the 
best of my way to the valley of the graces. Here I 
found all those who before had been my compa- 
nions in the region of beauty, now upon the same 
errand. 

As we entered the valley, the prospect insensi- 
bly seemed to improve; we found everything so 
natural, so domestic, and pleasing, that our 
minds, which before w r ere congealed in admira- 
tion, now relaxed into gaiety and good humour. 
We had designed to pay our respects to the pre- 
siding goddess, but she was no where to be found. 
One of our companions asserted, that her temple 
lay to the right; another to the left; a third 
insisted that it was straight before us; and a 
fourth that we had left it behind. In short, we 
found every thing familiar and charming, but 
could not determine where to seek for the grace in 
person. 

In this agreeable incertitude we passed several 
hours, and though very desirous of finding the 
goddess, by no means impatient of the delay. 
Every part of the valley presented some minute 
beauty, which, without offering itself at once, 
stole upon the soul, and captivated us with the 
charms of our retreat. Still, however, we con- 
tinued to search, and might still have continued, 
had we not been interrupted by a voice, which, 
though we could not see from whence it came, 
addressed us in this manner: 

' If you would find the goddess of grace, seek 
her not under one form, for she assumes a thou- 
sand. Ever changing under the eye of inspection, 
her variety, rather than her figure, is pleasing. 
In contemplating her beauty, the eye glides over 
every perfection with giddy delight, and capable 
of fixing no where, is charmed with the whole.* 
She is now contemplation with solemn look, again 
compassion with humid eye; she new sparkles 
with joy, soon every feature speaks distress : her 
looks at times invite our approach, at others, re- 
press our presumption; the goddess cannot be 
properly called beautiful under any one of these 
forms, but by combining them all, she becomes 
irresistibly pleasing.' Adieu. 



LETTER LXXVII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

The shops of London are as well furnished as 
those of Pekin. Those of London have a picture 
hung at their doors, informing the passengers 
what they have to sell, as those at Pekin have a 
board to assure the buyer that they have no inten- 
tion to cheat him. 
_ I was this morning to buy silk for a night-cap; 

* Vultus nimium lubricus aspici.— Hoa/ 



THE CITIZEN OF THE 



85 



immediately upon entering the mercer's shop, the 
master and his two men, with wigs plastered with 
powder, appeared to ask my commands. They 
were certainly the civilest people alive ; if I hut 
looked, they flew to the place where I cast my eye : 
every motion of mine sent them running round 
the whole shop for my satisfaction. I informed 
them that I wanted what was good, and they 
showed me no less than forty pieces, and each 
was better than the former; the prettiest pattern in 
nature, and the fittest in the world for night-caps. 
1 My very goou friend,' said I to the mercer, ' you 
must not pretend to instruct me in silks, I know 
these in particular to he no better than your mere 
flimsy Bungees.' — ' That may be,' cried the mer- 
cer, who I afterwards found had never contradicted 
a man in his life, ' I can't pretend to say but they 
may; but 1 can assure you, my lady Trail has had 
a sacque from this piece this very morning.'— 
■ But, friend,' said I, ' though my lady has chosen 
a sacque from it, I see no necessity that I should 
wear it for a night-cap.' — ' That may be,' returned 
he again, ' yet what becomes a pretty lady will, at 
any time, look well on a handsome gentleman.' 
This short compliment was thrown in so very 
reasonably upon my ugly face, that even though I 
disliked the silk, I desired him to cut me off the 
pattern of a night-cap. 

While this business was consigned to his jour- 
nejTnan, the master himself took down some 
pieces of silk still finer than any I had yet seen, 
and spreading them before me, * There,' cries he, 
1 there's beauty : my lord Snakeskin has bespoke 
the fellow of this for the birth-night, this very 
morning; it would look charmingly in waist- 
coats. — ' But I don't want a waistcoat,' replied I. 
' Not want a waistcoat,' returned the mercer, 
* then I would advise you to buy one ; when 
waistcoats are wanted, you may depend upon it 
they will come dear. Always buy before you 
want, and you are sure to be well used, as they 
say in Cheapside.' There was so much justice in 
his advice, that I could not refuse taking it ; be- 
sides, the silk, which was really a good one, in- 
creased the temptation, so I gave orders for that too. 

As I was waiting to have my bargains mea- 
sured and cut, which, I know not how, they ex- 
ecuted but slowly ; during the interval the mer- 
cer entertained me with the modern manner of 
some of the nobility receiving company in their 
morning-gowns : • Perhaps, sir,' adds he, ' you 
have a mind to see what kind of silk is univer- 
sally worn.' Without waiting for my reply, he 
spreads a piece before me, which might be reck- 
oned beautiful even in China. ' If the nobility,' 
continu es he, ' were to know I sold this to any 
under a right honourable, I should certainly lose 
their custom ; you see, my lord, it is at once rich, 
tasty, and quite the thing.' — ' I am no lord,' in- 
terrupted I. — 'I beg pardon,' cried he, 'but be 
pleased to remember, when you intend buying a 
morning-gown, that you had an offer from me of 
something worth money. Conscience, sir, con- 
science is my way of dealing: you may buy a 
morning-gown now, or you may stay till they be- 
come dearer and less fashionable ; but it is not 
my business to advise.' In short, most reverend 
Fum, he persuaded me to buy a morning-gown 
also, and would probably have persuaded me to 
have bought half the goods in his shop, if I had 
stayed long enough, or was furnished with suffi- 
cient money. 



Upon returning home, I could not help reflect- 
ing with some astonishment, how this very man, 
with such a confined education and capacity, was 
yet capable of turning me as he thought proper, 
and moulding me to his inclinations ! I knew he 
was only answering his own purposes, even while 
he attempted to appear solicitous about mine; 
yet, by a voluntary infatuation, a sort of passion, 
compounded of vanity and good-nature, I walked 
into the snare with my eyes open, and put myself 
to future pain, in order to give him immediate 
pleasure. The wisdom of the ignorant somewhat 
resembles the instinct of animals ; it is diffused in 
but a very narrow sphere, but within that circle 
it acts with vigour, uniformity, and success. 
Adieu. , 



LETTER LXXVIIL 

From the same. 

FnoM my former accounts, you may be apt to 
fancy the English the most ridiculous people un- 
der the sun. They are indeed ridiculous : yet 
every other nation in Europe is equally so; each 
laughs at each, and the Asiatic at all. 

I may, upon another occasion, point out what 
is most strikingly absurd in other countries; I 
shall at present confine myself only to France. 
The first national peculiarity a traveller meets 
upon entering tlmt kingdom, is an odd sort of 
staring vivacity in every eye, not excepting even 
the children ; the people it seems, have got it into 
their heads that they have more wit than others, 
and so stare in order to look smart. 

I knew not how it happens, but there appears a 
sickly delicacy in the faces of their finest women. 
This may have introduced the use of paint, and 
paint produces wrinkles ; so that a fine lady shall 
look like a hag at twenty-three. But as in some 
measure they never appear young, so it may be 
equally asserted, that they actually think them- 
selves never old ; a gentle miss shall prepare for 
new conquests at sixty, shall hobble a rigadoon 
when she can scarce walk without a crutch ; she 
shall affect the girl, play her fan and her eyes, 
and talk of sentiments, bleeding hearts, and ex- 
piring for love, when actually dying with age. 
Like a departing philosopher, she attempts to 
make her last moments the most brilliant of her 
life. 

Their civility to strangers is what they are 
chiefly proud of; and to confess sincerely, their 
beggars are the very politest beggars I ever knew ; 
in other places a traveller is addressed with a pi- 
teous whine, or a sturdy solemnity ; but a French 
beggar shall ask your charity with a very genteel 
bow, and thank you for it with a smile and shrug. 

Another instance of this people's breeding I 
must, not forget. An Englishman would T not 
speak his native language in a company of fo- 
reigners, where he was sure that none under- 
stood him ; a travelling Hottentot himself would 
be silent if acquainted only with the language of 
his country , but a Frenchman shall talk to you, 
whether you understand his language or not, 
never troubling his head whether you have 
learned French, still he keeps up the conversa- 
tion, fixes his eyes full in your face, and asks a 
thousand questions, which he answers himself 
for want of a more satisfactory reply. 



86 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



But their civility to foreigners is not half so 
great as their admiration of themselves. Every 
thing that belongs to them and their nation is 
great ; magnificent beyond expression ; quite ro- 
mantic ! every garden is a paradise, every hovel 
a palace, and every woman an angel. They shut 
their eyes close, throw their mouths wide open, 
and cry out in a rapture ; ' Sacre ! — What beauty 
O Ciel ! — what taste ! mort de ma vie I — what 
grandeur ! was ever any people like ourselves? 
we are the nation of men, and all the rest no bet- 
ter than two-legged barbarians.' 

I fancy the French would make the best cooks 
in the world, if they had but meat ; as it is, they 
can dress you out five different dishes from a 
nettle-top, seven from a dock-leaf, and twice as 
many from a frog's haunches ; these eat prettily 
enough when one is a little used to them, are easy 
of digestion,, and seldom over-load the stomach 
with crudities. They seldom dine under seven 
hot dishes ; it is true, indeed, with all this mag- 
nificence, they seldom spread a cloth before the 
guests ; but in that I cannot be angry with them, 
since those who have got no linen on their backs, 
may very well be excused for wanting it on their 
tables. 

Even religion itself lo6es its solemnity among 
them. Upon their roads, at about every five miles 
distance, you see an image of the Virgin Mary, 
dressed up in grim head-clothes, painted cheeks, 
and an old red petticoat ; before her a lamp is 
often kept burning, at which, with the saint's 
permission, I have frequently lighted my pipe. 
Instead of the Virgin, you are sometimes pre- 
sented with a crucifix, at other times with a 
wooden Saviour, fitted out in complete garniture, 
with sponge, spear, nails, pincers, hammer, bees- 
wax, and vinegar -bottle. Some of these images, 
I have been told, came down from heaven ; if so, 
in heaven they have but bungling workmen. 

In passing through their towns, you frequently 
see the men sitting at the doors knitting stock- 
ings, while the care of cultivating the ground and 
pruning the vines, fall to the women. This is 
perhaps the reason why the fair sex are granted 
some peculiar privileges in this country ; particu- 
larly when they can get horses, of riding without 
a side-saddle. 

But I begin to think you may find this descrip- 
tion pert and dull enough ; perhaps it is so, yet 
in general, it is the manner in which the French 
usually describe foreigners; and it is but just to 
force a part of that ridicule back upon them, 
which they attempt to lavish on others. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXIX. 



From the same. 



The two theatres, which serve to amuse the ci- 
tizens here, are again opened for the winter. The 
mimetic troops, different from those of the state, 
begin their campaign when all the others quit the 
field ; and at a time when the Europeans cease to 
destroy each other in reality, they are entertained 
with mock battles upon the stage. 

The dancing-master once more shakes his qui- 
vering feet ; the carpenter prepares his paradise 
of paste-board; the hero resolves to cover his 
forehead with brass, and the heroine begins to 



scour up her copper tail, preparative to further 
operations ; in short, all are in motion, from the 
theatrical letter-carrier in yellow clothes, to Alex- 
ander the Great that stands on a stool. 

Both houses have already commenced hostili- 
ties. War, open war 1 and no quarter received or 
given ! Two singing women, like heralds, have 
begun the contest; the whole town is divided on 
this solemn occasion. >ne has the finest pipe, the 
other the finest majrter; one courtesies to the 
ground, the other samtes the audience with a 
smile ; one comes on with modesty which asks, 
the other with boldness which extorts applause; 
one wears powder, the other has none ; one has 
the longest waist, but the other appears most 
easy ; all, all is important and serious ; the town 
as yet perseveres in its neutrality, a cause of such 
moment demands the most mature deliberation ; 
they continue to exhibit, and it is very possible 
this contest may continue to please to the end of 
the season. 

But the generals of either army have, as I am 
told, several reinforcements to lend, occasional 
assistance. If they produce a pair of diamond 
buckles at one house, we have a pair of eye-brows 
that can match them at the other. If we outdo 
them in our attitude, they can overcome us by a 
shrug ; if we can bring more children on the stage, 
they can bring more guards in red clothes, who 
strut and shoulder their swords, to the astonish- 
ment of every spectator. 

They tell me here, that people frequent the 
theatre in order to be instructed as well as 
amused. I smile to hear the assertion. If ever 
I go to one of their play-houses, what with trum- 
pets, hallooing behind the stage, and bawling 
upon it, I am quite dizzy before the performance 
is over. If I enter the house with any sentiments 
in my head, I am sure to have none going away, 
the whole mind being filled with a dead march, a 
funeral procession, a cat-call, a jig, or a tempest. 

There is, perhaps, nothing more easy than to 
write properly for the English theatre; I am 
amazed that none are apprenticed to the trade. 
The author, when well acquainted with the value 
of thunder and lightning, when versed in all the 
mystery of scene-shifting, and trap-doors ; when 
skilled in the proper periods to introduce a wire- 
walker, or a water-fall ; when instructed in every 
actor's peculiar talent, and capable of adapting 
his speeches to the supposed excellence ; when 
thus instructed, knows all that can give a modern 
audience pleasure. One player shines in an ex- 
clamation, another in a groan, a third in a hor- 
ror, a fourth in a start, a fifth in a smile, a sixth 
faints, and a seventh fidgets round the stage with 
peculiar vivacity; that piece therefore will suc- 
ceed best where each has a proper opportunity of 
shining; the actor's business is not so much tc 
adapt himself to the poet, as the poet's to adapt 
himself to the actor. 

The great secret, therefore, of tragedy-writing 
at present, is a perfect acquaintance with thea- 
trical ah's and oh's ; a certain number of these 
interspersed with gods ! tortures ! racks f and 
damnation ! shall distort every actor almost into 
convulsions, and draw tears from every specta- 
tor ; a proper use of these will infallibly fill the 
whole house with applause. But above all, a 
whining scene must strike most forcibly. I 
would advise, from my present knowledge of the 
audience, the two favourite players of the town, 



THE CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



87 



introduce a scene of this sort in every play. 
Towards the middle of the last act I would have 
them enter with wild looks and out-spread arms ; 
there is no necessity for speaking, they are only 
to groan at each other, they must vary the tones 
of exclamation and despair through the whole 
theatrical gamut, wring their figures into every 
shape of distress, and when their calamities have 
drawn a proper quantity of tears from the sympa- 
thetic spectators, they may go off in dumh solem- 
nity at different doors, clasping their hands, or 
slapping their pocket holes ; this, which may be 
called a tragic pantomime, will answer every pur- 
pose of moving the passions, as well as words 
could have done, and it must save those expenses 
which go to reward an author. 

All modern plays that would keep the audience 
alive, must be conceived in this manner, and in- 
deed, many a modern play is made up on no 
other plan. This is the merit that lifts up the 
heart, like opium, into a rapture of insensibility, 
and can dismiss the mind from all the fatigue of 
thinking; this is the eloquence that shines in 
many a long forgotten scene, which has been 
reckoned excessive fine upon acting : this the 
lightning that flashes no less in the hyperbolical 
tyrant, ' who breakfasts on the wind,' than in 
little Norval, ' as harmless as the babe unborn.' 
Adieu. 



LETTER LXXX. 

From the same. 

I have always regarded the spirit of mercy which 
appears in the Chinese laws with admiration. 
An order for the execution of a criminal is car- 
ried from court by slow journeys of six miles a 
day, but a pardon is sent down with the most ra- 
pid despatch. If five sons of the same father be 
guilty of the same offence, one of them is for- 
given, in order to continue the family, and com- 
fort his aged parents in their decline. 

Similar to this, there is a spirit of mercy 
breathes through the laws of England, which 
some erroneously endeavour to suppress. The 
laws, however, seem unwilling to punish the of- 
fender, or to furnish the officers of justice with 
every means of acting with severity. Those who 
arrest debtors are denied the use of arms ; the 
nightly watch is permitted to repress the disor- 
ders of the drunken citizens only with clubs ; jus- 
tice in such a case seems to hide her terrors, and 
permits some offenders to escape, rather than load 
any with a punishment disproportioned to the 
crime. 

Thus, it is the glory of an Englishman, that he 
is not only governed by laws, but that these are 
also tempered by mercy. A country restrained by 
severe laws, an<d those too executed with severity, 
(as in Japan,) is under the most terrible species 
of tyranny ; a royal tyrant is generally dreadful 
to the great, but numerous penal laws grind 
every rank of people, and chiefly those least able 
to resist oppression, — the poor. 

It is very possible, thus, for a people to become 
slaves to laws of their own enacting, as the Athe- 
nians were to those of Draco. • It might first 
happen (says the historian) that men with pecu- 
liar talents for villany attempted to evade the or- 
dinances already established; their practices there- 
fore soon brought on a new law levelled against 



them ; but the same degree of cunning, which 
had taught the knave to evade the former sta- 
tutes, taught him to evade the latter also ; he flew 
to new shifts, while justice pursued with new or- 
dinances ; still, however, he kept his proper dis- 
tance, and whenever one crime was judged penal 
by the state, he left committing it, in order to 
practise some unforbidden species of villany. Thus 
the criminal, against whom the threatenings were 
denounced, always escaped free ; while the sim- 
ple rogue alone felt the rigour of justice. In the 
meantime penal laws became numerous, almost 
every person in the state unknowingly, at differ- 
ent times, offended, and was every moment sub- 
ject to a malicious prosecution.' In fact, penal 
laws, instead of preventing crimes, are generally 
enacted after the commission ; instead of repress- 
ing the growth of ingenious villany, only multiply 
deceit, by putting it upon new shifts and expedi- 
ents of practising with impunity. 

Such laws, therefore, resemble the guards, which 
are sometimes imposed upon tributary princes, 
apparently, indeed, to secure them from danger, 
but in reality to confirm their captivity. 

Penal laws, it must be allowed, secure property 
in a state, but they also diminish personal security 
in the same proportion. There is no positive law, 
how equitable soever, that may not be sometimes 
capable of injustice. When a law, enacted to 
make theft punishable with death, happens to be 
equitably executed, it can at best only guard our 
possessions; but when, by favour or ignorance, 
justice pronounces a wrong verdict, it then attacks 
our lives, since in such a case, the whole com- 
munity suffers with the innocent victim; if, 
therefore, in order to secure the effects of one 
man, I should make a law which may take away 
the life of another, in such a case, to attain a 
similar good, I am guilty of a greater evil ; to 
secure society in the possession of a bauble, I 
render a real and valuable possession precarious. 
And indeed the experience of every age may 
serve to vindicate the assertion; no law could be 
more just than that called ' lessee majestatis,' when 
Rome was governed by emperors. It was but 
reasonable, that every conspiracy against the 
administration should be detected and punished; 
yet what terrible slaughters succeeded in con- 
sequence of its enacting; proscriptions, strang- 
lings, poisonings, in almost every family of dis- 
tinction, yet all done in a legal way; every 
criminal had his trial and lost his life by a 
majority of witnesses. 

And such will ever be the case where punish- 
ments are numerous, and where a weak, vicious, 
but above all, where a mercenary magistrate is 
concerned in their execution ; such a man desires 
to see penal laws increased, since he too fre- 
quently has it in his power to turn them iftto 
instruments of extortion ; in such hands the more 
laws the wider means, not of satisfying justice, 
but of satiating avarice. 

A mercenary magistrate, who is rewarded in 
proportion, not to his integrity, but to the number 
he convicts, must be a person of the most un- 
blemished character, or he will lean on the side 
of cruelty ; and when once the work of injustice is 
begun, it is impossible to tell how far it will pro- 
ceed. It is said of the hyena, that naturally it is 
no way ravenous, but when once it has tasted 
human flesh, it becomes the most voracious 
animal of the forest, and continues to persecute 



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mankind ever after. A corrupt magistrate may 
be considered as a human hyena; he begins 
perhaps by a private snap, he goes on to a morsel 
among friends, he proceeds to a meal in public, 
from a meal he advances to a surfeit, and at last 
sucks blood like a vampire. 

Not in such hands should the administration oi 
justice be intrusted, but to those who know how 
to reward as well as to punish; it was a fine 
saying of Nangfu the emperor, who being told 
that his enemies had raised an insurrection in 
one of the distant provinces ; ' Come then, my 
friends,' said he, ' follow me, and I promise you 
that we shall quickly destroy them.' He marched 
forward, and the rebels submitted upon his ap- 
proach. All now thought that he would take the 
most signal revenge, but were surprised to see 
the captives treated with mildness and humanity. 
— ' How !' cries his first minister, ' is this the 
manner in which you fulfil your promise ? Your 
royal word was given, that your enemies should 
be destroyed, and behold you have pardoned them 
all, and even caressed some!' — 'I promised,' re 
plied the emperor, with a generous air, 'to 
destroy my enemies, I have fulfilled my word, 
for see they are enemies no longer; I have made 
friends of them.' 

This, could it always succeed, were the true 
method of destroying the enemies of a state; 
well it were, if rewards and mercy alone could 
regulate the commonwealth; but since punish- 
ments are sometimes necessary, let them at least 
be rendered terrible, by being executed but seldom, 
and let justice lift her sword rather to terrify that 
revenge. Adieu. 




' I km told th» ladr ma\oreis, on dayi of ceremony, earrtei on» 
longer than a bell-wether of Bantam, >vho«o tail, you know, U 
trundled along in a wheel-barrow." 



LETTER LXXXI 

From the same. 



I have as yet given you but a short and imper- 
fect description of the ladies of England. Women, 
my friend, is a subject not easily understood, 
even in China; what, therefore, can be expected 
from my knowledge of the sex, in a country 
where they are universally allowed to be riddles, 
and I but a stranger ? 

To confess a truth, I was ahaid to begin the 
description, lest the sex should undergo some new 
revolution before it was finished ; and my picture 
should thus become old, before it could well be 
said to have ever been new. To-day they are 
lifted upon stilts, to-morrow they lower their heels 



and raise their heads ; their clothes at one tlm* 
are bloated out with whale-bone ; at present they 
have laid their hoops aside, and are become as 
slim as mermaids. All, all is in a state of con- 
tinual fluctuation, from the mandarine's wife, 
who rattles through the streets in her chariot, to 
the humble sempstress, who clatters over the 
pavement in iron-shod pattens. 

What chiefly distinguishes the sex, at present, 
is the train. As a lady's quality or fashion was 
once determined here by the circumference of her 
hoop, both are now measured by the length of her 
tail. Women of moderate fortunes are contented 
with tails moderately long; but ladies of true 
taste and distinction set no bounds to their 
ambition in this particular. I am told the lady 
mayoress, on days of ceremony, carries one 
longer than a bell-wether of Bantam, whose tail, 
you know, is trundled along in a wheel-barrow. 

Sun of China, what contradictions do we find in 
this strange world ! not only the people of differ- 
ent countries think in opposition to each other, 
but the inhabitants of a single island are often 
found inconsistent with themselves. Would you 
believe it ? this very people, my Fum, who are so 
fond of seeing their women with long tails, at the 
same time dock their horses to the very rump ! ! ! 

But you may easily guess, that I am no way 
displeased with a fashion which tends to increase 
a demand for the commodities of the east, and is 
so very beneficial to the country in which I was 
born. Nothing can be better calculated to in- 
crease the price of silk, than the present manner 
of dressing. A lady's train is not bought but at 
some expense ; and after it has swept the public 
walks for a very few evenings, is fit to be worn no 
longer: more silk must be bought in order to 
repair the breach; and some ladies of peculiar 
economy are thus found to patch up their tails 
eight or ten times in a season. This unnecessary 
consumption may introduce poverty here, but 
then we shall be the richer for it in China. 

The man in black, who is a professed enemy to 
this manner of ornamenting the tail, assures me 
there are numberless inconveniences attending it, 
and that a lady dressed up to the fashion, is as 
much a cripple as any in Nankin. But his chief 
indignation is levelled at those who dress in this 
manner, without a proper fortune to support it. 
He assures me, that he has known some who 
would have a tail, though they wanted a petticoat ; 
and others who, without any other pretensions, 
fancied they became ladies merely from the ad- 
dition of three superfluous yards of ragged silk. 
' I know a thrifty good woman,' continues he, 
'who, thinking herself obliged to carry a train 
like her betters, never walks from home without 
the uneasy apprehensions of wearing it out too 
soon ; every excursion she makes gives her new 
anxiety, and her train is every bit as importunate, 
and wounds her peace as much as the bladder we 
sometimes see tied to the tail of a cat.' 

Nay, he ventures to affirm, that a train may 
often bring a lady into the most critical circum- 
stances: 'for should a rude fellow,' says he, 
' offer to come up to ravish a kiss, and the lady 
attempt to avoid it, in retiring she must neces- 
sarily tread upon her train, and thus fall fairly 
upon her back ; by which means, every one 
knows — her clothes may be spoiled.' 

The ladies here make no scruple to laugh at 
the srnallness of a Chinese slipper, but I fancy 



THE CITIZEN OP THE WORLD. 



89 



our wives at China would have a more real cause 
of laughter, could they but see the immoderate 
length of a European train. Head of Confucius, 
to view a human being crippling herself with a 
great unwieldy tail for our diversion ; backward 
she cannot go, forward she must move but slowly, 
and if ever she attempts to turn round, it must 
be in a circle not smaller than that described by 
the wheeling crocodile when it would face an 
assailant. And yet, to think that all this confers 
importance and majesty ! to think that a lady 
acquires additional respect from fifteen yards of 
trailing taffety ! I cannot contain — ha, ha, ha ! 
this is certainly a remnant of European barbarity : 
the female Tartar dressed in sheep skins is in far 
more convenient drapery. Their own writers 
have sometimes inveighed against the absurdity 
of this fashion, but perhaps it has never been 
ridiculed so well as upon the Italian theatre, 
where Pasquariello, being engaged to attend on 
the countess of Pernambroco, having one of his 
hands employed in carrying her muff, and the 
other her lap dog, he bears her train majestically 
along, by sticking it in the waistband of his 
breeches. f Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXII. 

From the same. 

A dispute has for some time divided the phi- 
losophers of Europe; it is debated, whether arts 
and sciences are more serviceable or prejudicial 
to mankind. They who maintain the cause of 
literature, endeavour to prove their usefulness, 
from the impossibility of a large number of men 
subsisting in a small tract of country without 
them; from the pleasure which attends the ac- 
quisition; and from the influence of knowledge 
in promoting practical morality. 

They who maintain the opposite opinion, display 
the happiness and innocence of those uncultivated 
nations, who live without learning; urge the 
numerous vices which are to be found only in 
polished society, enlarge upon the oppression, the 
cruelty, and the blood which must necessarily be 
shed, in order to cement civil society, and insist 
upon the happy equality of conditions in a bar- 
barous state, preferable to the unnatural subordi- 
nation of a more refined constitution. 

This dispute, which has already given so much 
employment to speculative indolence, has been 
managed with much ardour, and (not to suppress 
our sentiments) with hut little sagacity. They 
who insist that the sciences are useful in refined 
society are certainly right; and they who maintain 
that barbarous nations are more happy without 
them, are right also ; but when one side, for this 
reason, attempts to prove them as universally 
useful to the solitary barbarian, as to the native 
of a crowded commonwealth; or when the other 
endeavours to Danish them as prejudicial to all 
society, even from i populous states, as well as 
from the inhabitants of a wilderness, they are 
both wrong ; since that knowledge which makes 
the happiness of a refined European, would be a 
torment to the precarious tenant of an Asiatic 
wild. 

Let me, to prove this, transport the imagination 
for a moment to the midst of a forest in Siberia. 
There we behold the inhabitant, poor indeed, hut 



equally fond of happiness with the most refined 
philosopher of China. The earth lies uncultivated 
and uninhabited for miles around him; his little 
family and he, the sole and undisputed possessors. 
In such circumstances, nature and reason will 
induce him to prefer a hunter's life to that of 
cultivating the earth. He will certainly adhere 
to that manner of living which is carried on at the 
smallest expense of labour, and that food which 
is most agreeable to the appetite ; he will prefer 
indolent though precarious luxury, to a laborious 
though permanent competence ; and a knowledge 
of his own happiness will determine him to per- 
severe in native barbarity. 

In like manner, his happiness will incline him 
to bind himself by no law ! Laws are made in 
order to secure present property, but he is pos- 
sessed of no property which he is afraid to lose, 
and desires no more than will he sufficient to 
sustain him ; to enter into compacts with others, 
would be undergoing a voluntary obligation with- 
out the expectance of any reward. He and his 
countrymen are tenants, not rivals, in the same 
inexhaustible forest ; the increased possessions of 
one, hy no means diminish the expectations 
arising from equal assiduity in another: there 
are no need of laws therefore to repress ambition, 
where there can be no mischief attending its most 
boundless gratification. 

Our solitary Siherian will, in like manner, find 
the sciences not only entirely useless in directing 
his practice, but disgusting even in speculation. 
In every contemplation, our curiosity must he 
first excited by the appearances of things, before 
our reason undergoes the fatigue of investigating 
the causes. Some of those appearances are pro- 
duced hy experiment, others by minute inquiry; 
some arise from a knowledge of foreign climates, 
and others from an intimate study of our own. 
But there are few objects in comparison, which 
present themselves to the inhabitant of a bar- 
barous country ; the game he hunts, or the tran- 
sient cottage he builds, make up the chief objects 
of his concern; his curiosity, therefore, must be 
proportionally less; and if that is diminished 
the reasoning faculty will be diminished in pro- 
portion. 

Besides, sensual enjoyment adds wings - to 
curiosity. "We consider few objects with ardent 
attention, but those which have some connexion 
with our wishes, our pleasures, or our necessities. 
A desire of enjoyment first interests our passions 
in the pursuit, points out the object of investiga- 
tion, and reason then comments where sense has 
led the way. An increase in the number of our 
enjoyments, therefore, necessarily produces an 
increase of scientific research ; hut in countries 
where almost every enjoyment is wanting, reason 
there seems destitute of its great inspirer, and 
speculation is the business of fools, when it be- 
comes its own reward. 

The barbarous Siberian, is too wise, therefore, 
to exhaust his time in quest of knowledge, which 
neither curiosity prompts, nor pleasure impels 
to pursue. When told of the exact admeasure- 
ment of a degree upon the equator at Quito, he 
feels no pleasure in the account; when informed 
that such a discovery tends to promote navigation 
and commerce, he finds himself no way interested 
in either. A discovery which some have pursued 
at the hazard of their lives, affects him with 
neither astonishment nor pleasure. He is sa- 



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GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



tisfied with thoroughly understanding the few 
objects which contribute to his own felicity; he 
knows the properest places where to lay the snare 
for the sable, and discerns the value of furs with 
more than European sagacity. More extended 
knowledge would only serve to render him un- 
happy, it might lend a ray to show him the misery 
of his situation, but could not guide him in his 
efforts to avoid it. Ignorance is the happiness of 
the poor. 

The misery of a being endowed with sentiments 
above its capacity of fruition, is most admirably 
described in one of the fables of Locman, the 
Indian moralist. 'An elephant that had been 
peculiarly serviceable in figMting the battles of 
Wistnow, was ordered by the god to wish for 
whatever he thought proper, and the desire should 
be attended with immediate gratification. The 
elephant thanked his benefactor on bended knees, 
and desired to be endowed with the reason and 
faculties of a man. Wistnow was sorry to hear 
the foolish request, and endeavoured to dissuade 
him from his misplaced ambition; but finding it 
to no purpose, gave him at last such a portion of 
wisdom, as could correct even the Zendavesta of 
Zoroaster. The reasoning elephant went away 
rejoicing in his new acquisition, and though his 
body still retained its ancient form, he found his 
appetites and passions entirely altered. He first 
considered that it would not only be more com- 
fortable, but also more becoming, to wear clothes ; 
but unhappily he had no method of making them 
himself, nor had he the use of speech to demand 
them from others, and this was the first time he 
felt real anxiety. He soon perceived how much 
more elegantly men were fed than he, therefore 
he began to loathe his usual food, and longed for 
those delicacies which adorn the tables of princes ; 
but here again he found it impossible to be satis- 
fied ; for though he could easily obtain flesh, yet 
he found it impossible to dress it in any degree of 
perfection. In short, every pleasure that con- 
tributed to the felicity of mankind, served only to 
render him more miserable, as he found himself 
utterly deprived of the power of enjoyment. In 
this manner he led a repining, discontented life, 
detesting himself, and displeased with his ill- 
judged ambition ; till at last his beiaefactor, Wist- 
now, taking compassion on his forlorn situation, 
restored him to the ignorance and the happiness 
which he was originally formed to enjoy.' 

No, my friend, to attempt to introduce the 
sciences into a nation of wandering barbarians, is 
only to render them more miserable than even 
nature designed they should be. A life of sim- 
plicity is best fitted to a state of solitude. 

The great lawgiver of Russia attempted tc 
improve the desolate inhabitants of Siberia, by 
sending among them some of the politest men of 
Europe. The consequence has shown, that the 
country was as yet unfit to receive them ; they 
languished for a time, with a sort of exotic 
malady ; every day degenerated from themselves ; 
and, at last, instead of rendering the country 
more polite, they conformed to the soil, and put 
on barbarity. 

No, my friend, in order to make the sciences 
useful in any country, it must first become po- 
pulous ; the inhabitant must go through the dif- 
ferent stages of hunter, shepherd, and husband- 
man : then when property becomes valuable, and 
consequently gives cause for injustice ; then when 



laws are appointed to repress injury, and secure pos- 
session ; when men, by the sanction of those laws, 
become possessed of superfluity; when luxury is 
thus introduced, and demands its continual sup- 
ply; then it is that the sciences become necessary 
and useful; the state then cannot subsist without 
them ; they must then be introduced, at once to 
teach men to draw the greatest possible quantity 
of pleasure from circumscribed possession; and to 
restrain them within the bounds of moderate en- 
joyment. 

The sciences are not the cause of luxury, but 
its consequence; and this destroyer thus brings 
with it an antidote, which resists the virulence of 
its own poison. By asserting that luxury intro- 
duces the sciences, we assert a truth ; but if, with 
those who reject the utility of learning, we assert 
that the sciences also introduce luxury, we shall 
be at once false, absurd, and ridiculous. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, by way of Moscow. 

You are now arrived at an age, my son, when 
pleasure dissuades from application : but rob not, 
by present gratification, all the succeeding period 
of life of its happiness. Sacrifice a little pleasure 
at first to the expectance of greater. The study 
of a few years will make the rest of life completely 
easy. • 

But instead of continuing the subject myself, 
take the following instructions borrowed from a 
modern philosopher of China.* 'He who has 
begun his fortune by study, will certainly confirm 
it by perseverance. The love of books damps the 
passion for pleasure, and when this passion is 
once extinguished life is then cheaply supported: 
thus a man, being possessed of more than he 
wants, can never be subject to great disappoint- 
ments, and avoids all those meannesses which 
indigence sometimes unavoidably produces. 

' There is unspeakable pleasure attending the 
life of a voluntary student. The first time I 
read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I 
had gained a new friend. When I read over a 
book I have perused before, it resembles the 
meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold 
of every incident in life for improvement, the 
trifling as well as the important. It is not one 
diamond alone which gives lustre to another; a 
common coarse stone is also employed for that 
purpose. Thus I ought to draw advantage from 
the insults and contempt I meet with from a 
worthless fellow. His brutality ought to induce 
me to self-examination, and correct every blemish 
that may have given rise to his calumny. 

' Yet, with all the pleasure and profits which 
are generally produced by learning, parents often 
find it difficult to induce their children to study. 
They often seem dragged to what wears the ap- 
pearance of application. Thus, being dilatory in 
the beginning, ail future hopes of eminence are 
, 1 entirely cut off. If they find themselves obliged 
' to write two lines more polite than ordinary, their 

* A translation of this passage may also be seen in Du 
Halde, vol. ii. fol. p. 47 and 58. This extract will at least 
serve to show that fondness for humour which appears in 
the writings of the Chinese.. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



91 



pencil then seems as heavy as a millstone, and 
they spend ten days in turning two or three 
periods with propriety. 

' These persons are most at a loss when a 
banquet is almost over; the plate and the dice go 
round, that the number of little verses, which 
each is obliged to repeat, may be determined by 
chance. The booby, when it comes to his turn, 
appears quite stupid and insensible. The com- 
pany divert themselves with his confusion ; and 
sneers, winks, and whispers, are circulated at his 
expense. As for him, he opens a pair of large 
heavy eyes, stares at all about him, and even 
offers to join in the laugh, without ever consider- 
ing himself as the burden of all their good 
humour. 

' But it is of no importance to read much, ex- 
cept you be regular in your reading. If it be 
interrupted for any considerable time, it can 
never be attended with proper improvement. 
There are some who study for one day with in- 
tense application, and repose themselves for ten 
days after. But wisdom is a coquette, and must 
be courted with unabating assiduity. 

'It was a saying of the ancients, that a man 
never opens a book without reaping some ad- 
vantage by it ; I say with them, that every book 
can serve to make us more expert, except ro- 
mances, and these are no better than instruments 
of debauchery. They are dangerous fictions, 
where love is the ruling passion. 

4 The most indecent strokes there pass for turns 
of wit ; intrigue and criminal liberties for gallantry 
and politeness. Assignations, and even villany, 
are put in such strong lights, as may inspire, even 
grown men, with the strongest passion ; how much 
more therefore ought the youth of either sex to 
dread them, whose reason is so weak, and whose 
hearts are so susceptible of passion ? 

■* To slip in by a back-door, or leap a wall, are 
accomplishments that, when handsomely set off, 
enchant a young heart. It is true, the plot is 
commonly wound up by a marriage, concluded 
with the consent of parents, and adjusted by every 
ceremony prescribed by law. But as in the body 
of the work there are many passages that offend 
good morals, overthrow laudable customs, violate 
the laws, and destroy the duties most essential to 
society, virtue is thereby exposed to the most 
dangerous attacks. 

' But, say some, the authors of these romances 
have nothing in view, but to represent vice 
punished and virtue rewarded. Granted. But 
will the greater number of readers take notice ot 
these punishments and rewards ? Are not their 
minds carried to something else? Can it be ima- 
gined that the art with which the author inspires 
the love of virtue, can overcome that crowd of 
thoughts which sway them to licentiousness ? To 
be able to inculcate virtue by so leaky a vehicle, 
the author must be a philosopher of the first rank. 
But in our age we can find but few first rate phi- 
losophers. 

" Avoid such performances where vice assumes 
the face of virtue ; seek wisdom and knowledge 
without ever thinking you have found them. A 
man is wise, while he continues in the pursuit of 
wisdom; but when he once fancies that he has 
found the object of his inquiry, he then becomes a 
fool. Learn to pursue virtue from the man that 
is blind, who never makes a step without first 
examining the ground with his staff. 



' The world is like a vast sea, mankind like a 
vessel sailing on its tempestuous bosom. Our 
prudence is its sails, the sciences serve us for oars, 
good or bad fortune are the favourable or contrary 
winds, and judgment is the rudder ; without this 
last, the vessel is tossed by every billow, and will 
find shipwreck in every breeze. In a word, ob- 
scurity and indigence are the parents of vigilancy 
and economy; vigilancy and economy, of riches 
and honour; riches and honour, of pride and 
luxury; pride and luxury, of impurity and idle- 
ness ; and impurity and idleness again produce 
indigence and obscurity. Such are the revolu- 
tions of life.' Adieu. 




No, replied the exasperated wretch, ' you know the maiinf r m 
which he left uie to live, (and pointing to the straw on which 
he was stretched,) and you tee the maimer in which he leaves 
me to die!'" 



LETTER LXXXIV. 



From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first Presideut of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

I fancy the character of a poet is in every country 
the same, fond of enjoying the present, careless of 
the future; his conversation that of a man of 
sense, his actions those of a fool ; of fortitude able 
to stand unmoved at the bursting of an earth- 
quake, yet of sensibility to be affected by the 
breaking of a tea-cup. Such is his character, 
which, considered in every light, is the very oppo- 
site of that which leads to riches. 

The poets of the west are as remarkable for 
their indigence as their genius; and yet, among 
the numerous hospitals designed to relieve the 



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GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



poor, I have heard of but one erected for the 
benefit of decayed authors. This was founded by 
Pope Urban VIII. and called the retreat of the 
incurables, intimating, that it was equally im- 
possible to reclaim the patients, who sued for re- 
ception, from poverty, or from poetry. To be 
sincere, were I to send you an account of the lives 
of the western poets, either ancient or modern, I 
fancy you would think me employed in collecting 
materials for a history of human wretchedness. 

Homer is the first poet and beggar of note 
among the ancients ; he was blind, and sung his 
ballads about the streets ; but it is observed, that 
his mouth was more frequently filled with verses 
than with bread. Plautus, the comic poet, was 
better off; he had two trades, he was a poet for 
his diversion, and helped to turn a mill, in order 
to gain a livelihood. Terence was a slave, and 
Boethius died in a jail. 

Among the Italians, Paulo Borghese, almost as 
good a poet as Tasso, knew fourteen different 
trades, and yet died because he could get employ- 
ment at none. Tasso himself, who had the most 
amiable character of all poets, has often been 
obliged to borrow a crown from some friend, in 
order to pay for a month's subsistence. He has 
left us a pretty sonnet, addressed to his cat, in 
which he begs the light of her eyes to write by, 
being too poor to afford himself a candle. But 
Bentivoglio, poor Bentivoglio! chiefly demands our 
pity. His comedies will last with the Italian lan- 
guage; he dissipated a noble fortune in acts of 
charity and benevolence : but falling into misery 
In his old age, was refused admittance into an 
hospital which he himself had erected. 

In Spain, it is said the great Cervantes died of 
hunger ; and it is certain that the famous Camo- 
ens ended his days in an hospital. 

If we turn to France, we shall there find even 
stronger instances of the ingratitude of the public 
Vaugelas, one of the politest writers, and one of 
the honestest men of his time, was surnamed the 
owl, from his being obliged to keep within all 
day, and Venture out only by night, through 
fear of his 'creditors. His last will is very re- 
markable ; after having bequeathed all his worldly 
substance to the discharging of his debts, he goes 
on thus : — ' but as there may still remain some 
creditors unpaid, even after all that I have shall 
be disposed of; in such a case, it is my last will, 
that my body should be sold to the surgeons to the 
best advantage, and that the purchase should go 
to the discharging those debts which I owe to 
society; so that if I could not, while living, at 
least when dead, I may be useful.' 

Cassander was one of the greatest geniuses of 
his time, yet all his merit could not procure him a 
bare subsistence. Being by degrees driven into a 
hatred of all mankind, from the little pity he 
found amongst them, he even ventured at last, 
ungratefully, to impute his calamities to provi- 
dence. In his last agonies, when the priest en- 
treated him to rely on the justice of heaven, and 
ask mercy from him that made him; 'If God,' 
replies he, ' has shown me no justice here, what 
reason have I to expect any from him hereafter?' 
But being answered, that a suspension of justice 
was no argument that should induce us to doubt 
of its reality; ' let me entreat you,' continued his 
confessor, ' by all that is dear, to be reconciled to 
God, your father, your maker, and friend.' — ' No,' 
replied the exasperated wretch, ' you know the 



manner in which he left me to live, (and pointing 
to the straw on which he was stretched,) and you 
see the manner in which he leaves me to die !' 

But the sufferings of the poet in other countries, 
are nothing when compared to his distresses here ; 
the names of Spencer and Otway, Butler and 
Dryden, are every day mentioned as a national 
reproach ; some of them lived in a state of preca- 
rious indigence, and others literally died of hunger. 
At present, the few poets of England no longer 
depend on the great for subsistence ; they have 
now no other patrons but the public, and the pub- 
lic, collectively considered, is a good and generous 
master. It is indeed too frequently mistaken as 
to the merits of every candidate for favour; but 
to make amends, it is never mistaken long. A 
performance indeed may be forced for a time into 
reputation, but destitute of real merit, it soon 
sinks ; time, the touchstone of what is truly 
valuable, will soon discover the fraud, and an 
author should never arrogate to himself any share 
of success, till his works have been read at least 
ten years with satisfaction. 

A man of letters at present, whose works are 
valuable, is perfectly sensible of their value. 
Every polite member of the community, by buying 
what he writes, contributes to reward him. The 
ridicule therefore of living in a garret, might have 
been wit in the last age, but continues such no 
longer, because no longer true. A writer of real 
m»rit now may easily be rich, if his heart be set only 
on fortune ; and for those who have no merit, it 
is but fit that such should remain in merited ob - 
scurity. He may now refuse an invitation to 
dinner, without fearing to incur his patron's dis- 
pleasure, or to starve by remaining at home. He 
may now venture to appear in company with just 
such clothes as other men generally wear, and 
talk even to princes, with all the conscious supe- 
riority of wisdom. Though he cannot boast of 
fortune here, yet he can bravely assert the dignity 
of independence. Adieu. 



LETTER, LXXXV. 

From the same. 

I have interested myself so long in all the con- 
cerns of this people, that I am almost become an 
Englishman ; I now begin to read with pleasure 
of their taking towns or gaining battles, and 
secretly wish disappointment to all the enemies of 
Britain. Yet still my regard to mankind fills me 
with concern for their contentions. I could wish 
to see the disturbances of Europe once more 
amicably adjusted. I am an enemy to nothing in 
this good world but war ; I hate fighting between 
rival states; I hate it between man and man; I 
hate fighting even between women ! 

I already informed you, that while Europe was 
at variance, we were also threatened from the 
stage with an irreconcilable opposition, and that 
our singing women were resolved to sing at each 
other to the end of the season. O, my friend, 
those fears were just. They are not only deter- 
mined to sing at each Other to the end of the 
season, but what is worse, to sing the same song, 
and what is still more insupportable, to make us 
pay for hearing. 

If they be for waT, for my part I should advise 
them to have a public congress, and there fairly 



TI1K CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



93 



squall to each other. What signifies sounding the 
trumpet of defiance at a distance, and calling in 
the town to fight their battles. I -would have 
them come boldly into one of the most open and 
frequented streets, face to face, and there to try 
their skill in quavering. 

However this may be, resolved I am they shall 
not touch one single piece of silver more of mine. 
Though I have ears for music, thanks to heaven, 
they are not altogether asses' ears. What ! Polly 
and the Pickpocket to-night, Polly and the Pick- 
pocket to-morrow night, and Polly and the Pick- 
pocket again; I want patience. I'll hear no more. 
My soul is out of tune. All jarring discord and 
confusion. Rest, rest, ye three dear clinking 
shillings in my pocket's bottom — the music you 
make is more harmonious to my spirit, than cat- 
gut, rosin, or all the nightingales that ever chir- 
ruped in petticoats. 

But what raises my indignation to the greatest 
degree, is, that this piping does not only pester 
me on the stage, but is my punishment in private 
conversation. What is it to me whether the fine 
pipe of one, or the great manner of the other be 
preferable ? What care I, if one ha.s a better top, 
or the other a nobler bottom ? How am I concern- 
ed, if one sings from the stomach, or the other 
sings with a snap ? yet, paltry as these matters 
are, they make a subject of debate wherever I go ; 
and this musical dispute, especially among the 
fair sex, almost always ends in a very unmusical 
altercation. 

Sure the spirit of contention is mixed with the 
very constitution of the people ; divisions among 
the inhabitants of other countries arise only from 
their higher concerns ; but subjects the most con- 
temptible are made an affair of party here, the 
spirit is carried even into their amusements. The 
very ladies, whose duty should seem to allay the 
impetuosity of the opposite sex, become them- 
selves party champions, engage in the thickest of 
the fight, scold at each other, and show their 
courage, even at the expense of their lovers and 
their beauty. 

There are even a numerous set of poets who 
help to keep up the contention, and write for the 
stage. Mistake me not, I do not mean pieces to 
be acted upon it, but panegyrical verses on the 
performers; for that is the most universal method 
of writing for the stage at present. It is the 
business of the stage poet, therefore, to watch the 
appearance of every new player at his own house, 
and so come out next day with a flaunting copy 
of newspaper verses. In these, nature and the 
actor may be set to run races, the player always 
coming off victorious ; or nature may mistake him 
for herself; or old Shakspeare may put on his 
winding-sheet, and pay him a visit ; or the tune- 
ful nine may strike up their harps in his praise ; 
or should it happen to be an actress, Venus, the 
beauteous queen of love, and the naked Graces, 
are ever in waiting : the lady must be herself a 
goddess bred and born ; she must — but you shall 
have a specimen of one of these poems, which 
may convey a more precise idea. 

ON SEEING MRS. 

PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OP ■ 

To you, bright fair, the nine address their lays, 
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise 
The heart-felt power of every charm divine, 
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine? 



See how she moves along with every grace, 

While soul-bought tears steal down each shining 

face! 
She speaks, 'tis rapture all and nameless bliss; 
Ye gods, what transport e'er compared to this? 
As when in Paphian groves the queen of love. 
"With fond complaint, address'd the listening Jove, 
'Twas joy and endless blisses all around, 
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound. 
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in, 
And felt her charms, without disguise, within. 

And yet think not, my friend, that I have any 
particular animosity against the champions who 
are at the head of the present commotion ; on the 
contrary, I could find pleasure in the music, if 
served up at proper intervals ; if I heard it only 
on proper occasions, and not about it wherever I 
go. In fact I could patronize them both; and, as 
an instance of my condescension in this parti- 
cular, they may come and give me a song at my 
lodgings, on any evening when I am at leisure, 
provided they keep a becoming distance, and 
stand, while they continue to entertain me, with 
decent humility, at the door. 

You perceive I have not read the seventeen 
books of Chinese ceremonies to no purpose. I 
know the proper share of respect due to every 
rank of society. Stage-players, fire-eaters, singing 
women, dancing-dogs, wild beasts, and wire-walk- 
ers, as their efforts are exerted for our amuse- 
ment, ought not entirely to be despised. The 
laws of every country should allow them to play 
their tricks at least with impunity. They should 
not be branded with the ignominious appellation 
of vagabonds; at least, they deserve a rank in 
society equal to the mystery of barbers, or under- 
takers; and, could my influence extend so far, 
they should be allowed to earn even forty or 
fifty pounds a-year, if eminent in their profes- 
sion. 

I am sensible, however, that you will censure 
me of profusion in this respect, bred up as you are 
in the narrow prejudices of eastern frugality. 
You will undoubtedly assert, that such a stipend 
is too great for so useless an employment. Yet 
how will your surprise increase, when told, that 
though the law holds them as vagabonds, many of 
them earn more than a thousand a-year ! You are 
amazed. There is cause for amazement. A va- 
gabond with a thousand a-year is indeed a curi- 
osity in nature; a wonder far surpassing the 
flying fish, petrified crab, or travelling lobster. 
However, from my great love to the profession, I 
would willingly have them divested of their con- 
tempt, and part of their finery ; the law should 
kindly take them under the wing of protection, fix 
them Into a corporation, like that of the barbers, 
and abridge their ignominy and their pensions. 
As to their abilities in other respects, I would 
leave that entirely to the public, who are certainly 
in this case the properest judges — whether they 
despise them or not. 

Yes, my Fum, I would abridge their pensions. 
A theatrical warrior, who conducts the battles of 
the stage, should be cooped up with the same 
caution as a bantam cock that is kept for fighting. 
When one of those animals is taken from its 
native dung-hill, we retrench it both in the 
quantity of its food and the number of its seraglio : 
players should in the same manner be fed, not 
fattened ; they should be permitted to get their 
bread, but not eat the people's into the bargain j 
and, instead of being permitted to keep four mis- 



94 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



tresses, in conscience, they should be contented 
only with two. 

Were stage-players thus brought into bounds, 
perhaps we should find their admirers less san- 
guine, and consequently less ridiculous in patron- 
izing them. We should be no longer struck with 
the absurdity of seeing the same people, whose 
valour makes such a figure abroad, apostrophizing 
in the praise of a bouncing blockhead, and wrang- 
ling in the defence of a copper-tailed actress at 
home. 

I shall conclude my letter with the sensible 
admonition of Me the philosopher. ' You love 
harmony,' says he, ' and are charmed with music. 
I do not blame you for hearing a fine voice, when 
you are in your closet with a lovely parterre under 
your eye, or in the night time, while perhaps the 
moon diffuses her silver rays. But is a man to 
carry this passion so far as to let a company of 
comedians, musicians, and singers, grow rich 
upon his exhausted fortune? If so, lie resembles 
one of those dead bodies, whose brains the em- 
balmers have picked out through its ears.' Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXVI. 

From the same. 

Of all the places of amusement where gentlemen 
and ladies are entertained, I have not been yet to 
visit Newmarket. This, I am told, is a large 
field ; where, upon certain occasions, three or four 
horses are brought together, then set a running, 
and that horse which runs swiftest wins the 
wager. 

This is reckoned a very polite and fashionable 
amusement here, much more followed by the 
nobility than partridge fighting at Java, or paper- 
kites in Madagascar. Several of the great here, 
I am told, understand as much of farriery as their 
grooms ; and a horse, with any share of merit, 
can never -want a patron among the nobility. 

We have a description of this entertainment 
almost every day in some of the gazettes, as for 
instance : ' On such a day the Give and Take 
Plate was run for between his grace's Crab, his 
lordship's Periwinkle, and 'squire Smackem's 
Slamerkin. All rode their own horses. There 
was the greatest concourse of nobility that has 
been known here for several seasons. The odds 
were in favour of Crab in the beginning ; but Sla- 
merkin, after the first heat, seemed to have the 
match hollow: however, it was soon seen that 
Periwinkle improved in wind, which at last 
turned out accordingly ; Crab was run to a stand 
still, Slamerkin was knocked up, and Periwinkle 
was brought in with universal applause.' Thus, 
you see, Periwinkle received universal applause ; 
and no doubt his lordship came in for some share 
of that praise which was so liberally bestowed 
upon Periwinkle. Sun of China ! how glorious 
must the senator appear in his cap and leather 
breeches, his whip crossed in his mouth, and thus 
coming to the goal amongst the shouts of grooms, 
jockeys, pimps, stable-bred dukes, and degraded 
generals ! 

From the description of this princely amuse- 
ment, now transcribed, and from the great vene- 
ration I have for the characters of its principal 
promoters, I make no doubt but I shall look upon 
a horse-race with becoming reverence, predis- 



posed as I am by a similar amusement, of which I 
have lately been a spectator ; for just now I hap- 
pened to have an opportunity of being present at 
a cart-race. 

Whether this contention between three carts of 
different parishes was promoted by a subscription 
among the nobility, or whether the grand-jury, in 
council assembled, had gloriously combined to 
encourage plaustral merit, I cannot take upon 
me to determine; but, certain it is, the whole 
was conducted with the utmost regularity and 
decorum ; and the company, which made a bril- 
liant appearance, were universally of opinion that 
the sport was high, the running fine, and the ri- 
ders influenced by no bribe. 

It was run on the road from London to a vil- 
lage called Brentford, between a turnip cart, a 
dust cart, and a dung cart ; each of the owners 
condescending to mount and be his own driver. 
The odds at starting were Dust against Dung five 
to four ; but after half a mile's going, the know- 
ing ones found themselves all on the wrong side, 
and it was Turnip against the field, brass to 
silver. 

Soon, however, the contest became more doubt- 
ful ; Turnip indeed kept the way, but it was per- 
ceived that Dung had better bottom. The road 
re-echoed with the shouts of the spectators — 
'Dung against Turnip! Turnip against Dung!' 
was now the universal cry ; neck and neck ; one 
rode lighter, but the other had more judgment. I 
could not but particularly observe the ardour with 
which the fair sex espoused the cause of the dif- 
ferent riders on this occasion ; one was charmed 
with the unwashed beauties of Dung; another 
was captivated with the patibulary aspect of Tur- 
nip ; while, in the meantime, unfortunate gloomy 
Dust, who came whipping behind, was cheered 
by the encouragement of some, and pity of all. 

The contention now continued for some time, 
without a possibility of determining to whom vic- 
tory designed the prize. The winning-post ap- 
peared in view, and he who drove the turnip cart 
assured himself of success ; and successful he 
might have been, had his horse been as ambitious 
as he ; but upon approaching a turn from the road, 
which led homewards, the horse fairly stood still, 
and refused to move a foot farther. The dung 
cart had scarcely time to enjoy this temporary 
triumph, when it was pitched headlong into a 
ditch by the way side, and the rider left to wallow 
in congenial mud. Dust in the meantime soon 
came up ; and not being far from the post, came 
in amidst the shouts and acclamations of all the 
spectators, and greatly caressed by all the quality 
of Brentford. Fortune was kind only to one, 
who ought to have been favourable to all ; each 
had peculiar merit, each laboured hard to earn 
the prize, and each richly deserved the cart he 
drove. 

I do not know whether this description may not 
have anticipated that which I intended giving of 
Newmarket. I am told there is little else to be 
seen even there. There may be some minute 
differences in the dress of the spectators, but none 
at all in their understandings ; the quality of 
Brentford are as remarkable for politeness and de- 
licacy as the breeders of Newmarket. The qua- 
lity of Brentford drive their own carts, and the 
honourable fraternity of Newmarket ride their 
own horses. In short, the matches in one place 
are as rational as those in the other ; and it is 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



\ro 



more than probable, that turnips, dust, and 
dung, are all that can be found to furnish ou 
description in either. 

Forgive me, my friend, but a person like me, 
bred up in a philosophic seclusion, is apt to re 
gard, perhaps, with too much asperity, those oc- 
currences which sink man below his station in 
nature, and diminish the intrinsic value of h-ima- 
nity. Adieu. 



LETTER LXXXVII. 

From Fum Hoam, to Lien Chi Altangi. 

fcou tell me the people of Europe are wise ; but 
Where lies their wisdom ? You say they are va- 
liant too, yet I have some reason to doubt of their 
valour. They are engaged in war among each 
other, yet apply to the Russians, their neigh 
bours and ours, for assistance. Cultivating such 
an alliance argues at once imprudence and timi- 
dity. All subsidies paid for such an aid is 
strengthening the Russians, already too power- 
ful, and weakening the employers, already ex- 
hausted by intestine commotions. 

I cannot avoid beholding the Russian empire 
as the natural enemy of the more western parts of 
Europe; as an enemy already possessed of great 
strength, and, from the nature of the govern- 
ment, every day threatening to become more 
powerful. This extensive empire, which, both 
in Europe and Asia, occupies almost a third of 
the old world, was, about two centuries ago, di- 
vided into separate kingdoms, and dukedoms, and 
from such a division, consequently feeble. Since 
the time, however, of Johan Basilides, it has in- 
creased in strength and extent; and those un- 
trodden forests, those innumerable savage ani- 
mals, which formerly covered the face of the 
country, are now removed, and colonies of man- 
kind planted in their room. A kingdom thus en- 
joying peace internally, possessed of an unbounded 
extent of dominions, and learning the military 
art at the expense of others abroad, must every 
day grow more powerful ; and it is probable, we 
shall hear Russia, in future times, as formerly, 
called the Officina Gentium. 

It was long the wish of Peter, their great mo- 
narch, to have a fort in some of the western parts 
of Europe; many of his schemes and treaties 
were directed to this end, but happily for Europe, 
he failed in them all. A fort in the power of this 
people, would be like the possession of a flood- 
gate ; aud whenever ambition, interest, or neces- 
sity prompted, they might then be able to deluge 
the whole western world with a barbarous inun- 
dation. 

Believe me, my friend, I cannot sufficiently 
contemn the politics of Europe, who thus make 
this powerful people arbitrators in their quarrel. 
The Russians are now at that period between re- 
finement and barbarity, which seems most adapt- 
ed to military achievement; and if once they 
happen to get footing in the western parts of Eu- 
rope, it is not the feeble efforts of the sons of 
effeminacy and dissension that can serve to re- 
move them. The fertile valley and soft climate 
will ever be sufficient inducements to draw whole 
myriads from their native deserts, the trackless 
wild, or snowy mountain. 

History, experience, reason, nature, expand 



the book of wisdom before the eyes of mankind 
but they will not read. We have seen with terror 
a winged phalanx of famished locusts, each singly 
contemptible, hut from multitude become hide- 
ous, cover, like clouda, the face of day, and 
threaten the whole world with ruin. We have 
seen them settling on the fertile plains of India 
and Egypt, destroying in an instant the labours 
and the hopes of nations; sparing neither the 
fruit of the earth, nor the verdure of the fields, 
and changing into a frightful desert, landscapes 
of once luxuriant beauty. We have seen myriads 
of ants issuing together from the southern desert 
like a torrent, whose source was inexhaustible, 
succeeding each other without end, and renewing 
their destroyed forces with unwearied perseve- 
rance, bringing desolation wherever they came, 
banishing men and animals, and, when destitute 
of all subsistence, in heaps infecting the wilder- 
ness which they had made ! Like these have 
been the migrations of men. When as yet sa- 
vage, and almost resembling their brute partners 
in the forest, subject like them only to the in- 
stincts of nature, and directed by hunger alone 
in the choice of an abode, how have we seen 
whole armies starting wild at once from their 
forest and their dens; Goths, Huns, Vandals, 
Saracens, Turks, Tartars, myriads of men, ani- 
mals in human form, without country, without 
name, without laws, over-powering by num- 
bers all opposition, ravaging cities, overturning 
empires, and after having destroyed whole na- 
tions, and spread extensive desolation, how have 
we seen them sink oppressed by some new enemy, 
more barbarous and even more unknown than 
they I Adieu. 




" They both now, therefore, assisted in Ashing up the direr on 
shore ; hut nothing could equal their surprise upon seeing him." 



LETTER LXXXVIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President »f 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

As the instruction o.f the fair sex in this country 
is entirely committed to the care of foreigners, 
as their language-masters, music-master*, bair- 
frizzers, and governesses, are all from abroad, I 
had some intentions of opening a female academy 
myself, and made no doubt, as I was quite a 
foreigner, of meeting a favourable reception. 

In this I intended to instruct the ladies in all 
the conjugal mysteries; wives should be taught 
the art of managing husbands, and maids the 
skill of properly ^choosing them ; I would teach a 
wife how far she might venture to be sick without 



1 96 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



giving disgust; she should be acquainted with 
the great benefits of the choiic in the stomach, 
and all the thorough-bred insolence of fashion; 
maids should learn the secret of nicely distin- 
guishing every competitor; they should be able 
to know the difference between a pedant and a 
scholar, a citizen and a prig, a 'squire and his 
horse, a beau and his monkey; but chiefly, they 
should be taught the art of managing their smiles, 
from the contemptuous simper to the long la- 
borious laugh. 

But I have discontinued the project ; for what 
would signify teaching ladies the manner of go- 
verning or choosing husbands, when marriage is 
at present so much out of fashion, that a lady is 
very well off who can get any husband at all. 
Celibacy now prevails in every rank of life; the 
streets are crowded with old bachelors, and the 
houses with ladies who have refused good offers, 
and are never likely to receive any for the future. 

The only advice, therefore, I could give the 
fair sex, as things stand at present, is to get 
husbands as fast as they can. There is certainly 
nothing in the whole creation, not even Babylon 
in ruins, more truly deplorable, than a lady in 
the virgin bloom of sixty-three, or a battered un- 
married beau, who squibs about from place to 
place, showing his pig- tail wig and his ears. The 
one appears to my imagination in the form of a 
double night-cap, or a roll of pomatum, the other 
in the shape of an electuary, or a box of pills. 

I would once more, therefore, advise the ladies 
to get husbands. I would desire them not to dis- 
card an old lover without very sufficient reasons, 
nor treat the new with ill-nature, till they knew 
him false; let not prudes allege the falseness of 
the sex, coquettes the pleasures of long courtship, 
or parents the necessary preliminaries of penny 
for penny. I have reasons that would silence 
even a casuist in this particular. In the first 
place, therefore, I divide the subject into fifteen 
heads, and then, 'sic argumentor,' — but not to 
give you and myself the spleen, be contented at 
present with an Indian tale. 

In a winding of the river Amidar, just before it 
falls into the Caspian sea, there lies an island un- 
frequented by the inhabitants of the continent. 
In this seclusion, blessed with all that wild un- 
cultivated nature could bestow, lived a princess 
and her two daughters. She had been wrecked 
upon the coast while her children as yet were in- 
fants, who, of consequence, though grown up, 
were entirely unacquainted with man. Yet, un- 
experienced as the young ladies were in the oppo- 
site sex, both early discovered symptoms, the one 
of prudery, the other of being a coquette. The 
eldest was ever learning maxims of wisdom and 
discretion from her mamma, while the youngest 
employed all her hours in gazing at her own face 
in a neighbouring fountain. 

Their usual amusement in this solitude was 
fishing; their mother had taught them all the 
secrets of the art ; she showed them which were 
the most likely places to throw out the line, what 
baits were most proper for the various seasons, 
and the best manner to draw up the finny prey, 
when they had hooked it. In this manner they 
spent their time, easy and innocent, till one day 
the princess being indisposed, desired them to go 
and catch her a sturgeon or a shark for supper 
which she fancied might sit easy on her stomach. 
The daughters obeyed, and clapping on a gold 



fish, the usual bait on these occasions, went and 
sat upon one of the rocks, letting the gilded hook 
glide down with the stream. 

On the opposite shore, farther down, at the 
mouth of the river, lived a diver for pearls, a 
youth, who, by long habit in his trade, was almost 
grown amphibious; so that he could remain whole 
hours at the bottom of the water, without ever 
fetching breath, He happened to be at that very 
instant diving, when the ladies were fishing with 
the gilded hook. Seeing therefore the bait, which 
to him had the appearance of real gold, he was 
resolved to seize the prize, but both hands being 
already filled with pearl oysters, he found himself 
obliged to snap at it with his mouth : the conse- 
quence is easily imagined; the hook, before un- 
perceived, was instantly fastened in his jaw ; nor 
could he, with all his efforts, or his floundering, 
get free. 

' Sister,' cries the youngest princess, ' I have 
certainly caught a monstrous fish ; I never per- 
ceived any thing struggle so at the end of my line 
before; come, and help me to draw it in.' They 
both now, therefore, assisted in fishing up the 
diver on shore; but nothing could equal their 
surprise upon seeing him. ' Bless my eyes,' cries 
the prude, 'what have we got here; this is a very 
odd fish to be sure; I never saw any thing in my 
life look so queer ; what eyes ! what terrible claws ! 
what a monstrous snout! I have read of this 
monster somewhere before, it certainly must be a 
tanglang, that eats women ; let us throw it back 
into the sea where we found it.' 

The diver in the meantime stood upon the 
beach, at the end of the line, with the hook in his 
mouth, using every art that he thought could best 
excite pity, and particularly looking extremely 
tender, which is usual in such circumstances. 
The coquette, therefore, in some measure influ- 
enced by the innocence of his looks, ventured to 
contradict her companion. ' Upon my word, 
sister,' says she, 'I see nothing in the animal so 
very terrible as you are pleased to apprehend ; I 
think it will serve well enough for a change. 
Always sharks, and sturgeons, and lobsters, and 
crawfish, make me quite sick. I fancy a slice of 
this nicely grilladed, and dressed up with shrimp- 
sauce, would be very pretty eating. I fancy 
mamma would like a bit with pickles above all 
things in the world: and if it should not sit easy 
on her stomach, it will be time enough to dis- 
continue it when found disagreeable, you know.' 
— • Horrid !' cries the prude, ' would the girl be 
poisoned. I tell you it is a tanglang ; I have read 
of it in twenty places. It is every where de- 
scribed as the most pernicious animal that ever 
infested the ocean. I am certain it is the most 
insidious ravenous creature in the world; and is 
certain destruction if taken internally.' The 
youngest sister was now therefore obliged to sub- 
mit: both assisted in drawing the hook with some 
violence from the diver's jaw; and he finding 
himself at liberty, bent his breast against the 
broad wave, and disappeared in an instant. 

Just at this juncture the mother came down to 
the beach, to know the cause of her daughters' 
delay ; they told her every circumstance, describ- 
ing the monster they had caught. The old lady 
was one of the most discreet women in the world ; 
she was called the black-eyed princess, from two 
black eyes she had received in her youth, being a 
little addicted to boxing in her liquor. ' Alas, my 



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97 



children!' cries she, 'what have you done? the 
fish you caught was a man-fish ; one of the most 
tame domestic animals in the world. We could 
have let him run and play about the garden, and 
he would have been twenty times more enter- 
taining than our squirrel or monkey.' — ' If that be 
all,' says the young coquette, 'we will fish for 
him again. If that be all, I will hold three tooth- 
picks to one pound of snuff, I catch him whenever 
I please.' Accordingly they threw in their line 
once more, but, -with all their gilding, and paddling, 
and assiduity, they could never catch the diver 
In this state of solitude and disappointment they 
continued for many years, still fishing, but with- 
out success ; til), at last, the genius of the place, 
in pity of their distress changed the prude into a 
shrimp, and the coquette into an oyster. Adieu. 



LETTER, LXXXIX. 

From the same. 

I am amused, my dear Fum, with the labours of 
some of the learned here. One shall write you a 
whole folio on the dissection of a caterpillar. 
Another shall swell his works with a description 
of the plumage on the wing of a butterfly ; a third 
shall see a little world on a peach leaf, and publish 
a book to describe what his readers might see 
more clearly in two minutes, only by being fur- 
nished with e3'es and a microscope. 

I have frequently compared the understanding* 
of such men to their own glasses. Their field of 
vision is too contracted to take in the whole of 
any but minute objects : thev view all nature bit 
by bit ; now the proboscis, now the antennae, now 
the pinnae of — a flea. Now the polypus comes to 
breakfast upon* a worm; now it is kept up to see 
how long it will live without eating; now it is 
turned inside outward; and now it sickens and 
dies. Thus they proceed, laborious in trifles, 
constant in experiment, without one single ab- 
straction, by which alone knowledge may be pro- 
perly said to increase ; till, at last, their ideas, 
ever employed upon minute things, contract to 
the size of the diminutive object, and a single mite 
shall fill their whole mind's capacity. 

Yet, believe me, my friend, ridiculous as these 
men are to the world, they are set up as objects of 
esteem for each other. They have particular 
places appointed for their meetings, in which one 
shows his cockle shell, and is praised by all the 
society; another produces his powder, makes 
some experiments that result in nothing, and 
comes off with admiration and applause; a third 
comes out with the important discovery of some 
new process in the skeleton of a mole, and is set 
down as the accurate and sensible; while one, 
still more fortunate than the rest, by pickling, 
potting, and preserving monsters, rises into un- 
bounded reputation. 

The labours of such men, instead of being cal- 
culated to amuse the public, are laid out only for 
diverting each other. The world becomes very 
little the better or the wiser; for knowing what is 
the peculiar food of an insect, that is itself the 
food of another, which, in its turn, is eaten by a 
third : but there are men who have studied them- 
selves into a habit of investigating and admiring 
such minutiae. To these such subjects are pleasing, 
as there are some who contentedly, spend whole 



days in endeavouring to solve enigmas, or dis- 
entaugle the puzzling sticks of children. 

But of all the learned, those who pretend to in- 
vestigate remote antiquity have least to plead in 
their own defence, when they carry this passion 
to a faulty excess. They are generally found to 
supply by conjecture the want of record ; and then 
by perseverance are wrought up into a confidence 
of the truth of opinions, which even to themselves 
at first appeared founded only in imagination. 

The Europeans have heard much of the king- 
dom of China:, its politeness, arts, commerce, 
laws, and morals, are, however, but very imper- 
fectly known among them. They have even now 
in their Indian warehouses numberless utensils, 
plants, minerals, and machines, of the use of 
which they are entirely ignorant : nor can any 
among them even make a probable guess for what 
they might have been designed. Yet, though 
this people be so ignorant of the present real state 
of China, the philosophers I am describing have 
entered into long, learned, laborious disputes, 
about what China was two thousand years ago. 
China and European happiness are but little con- 
nected even at this day; but European happiness 
and China two thousand years ago, have certainly 
no connexion at all. However, the learned have 
written on and pursued the subject through all 
the labyrinths of antiquity; though the early dews 
and the tainted gale be passed away, though no 
footsteps remain to direct the doubtful chace, 
yet still they run forward, open upon the uncer- 
tain scent, and though in fact they follow nothing, 
are earnest in the pursuit. In this chace, how- 
ever, they all take different ways. One, for 
example, confidently assures us, that China was 
peopled by a colony from Egypt. Sesostris, he 
observes, led his army as far as the Ganges ; 
therefore, if he went so far, he might still have 
gone as far as China, which is but about a thou- 
sand miles from thence; therefore he did go to 
China ; therefore China was not peopled before he 
went there ; therefore it was peopled by him. Be- 
sides, the Egyptians have pyramids ; the Chinese 
have in like manner their porcelain tower; the 
Egyptians used to light up candles upon every re- 
joicing, the Chinese have lanterns upon the same 
occasion ; the Egyptians had their great river, 
so have Chinese; but what serves to put the 
matter past doubt is, that the ancient kings of 
China and those of Egypt were called by the same 
names. The emperor Ki is certainly the same 
with King Atoes ; for, if we only change K into 
A, and i into toes, we shall have the name Atoes ; 
and with equal ease Menes may be proved to be 
the same with the emperor Yu; therefore the 
Chinese are a colony from Egypt. 

But another of the learned is entirely different 
from the last ; and he will have the Chinese to be 
a colony planted by Noah just after the deluge. 
First, from the vast similitude there is between 
the name of Fohi, the founder of the Chinese 
monarchy, and that of Noah, the preserver of the 
human race; Noah, Fohi, very like each other 
truly ; they have each but four letters, and only 
two of the four happen to differ. But to strengthen 
the argument, Fohi, as the Chinese chronicle 
asserts, had no father. Noah, it is true, had a 
father, as the European bible tells us ; but then, 
as this father was probably drowned in the flood, 
it is just the same as if he had no father at all; 
therefore Noah and Fohi are the same. Just 



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GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



after the flood, the earth was covered with mud ; 
if it was covered with mud, it must have been 
incrustated mud; if it was incrustated, it was 
clothed with verdure ; this was a fine, unem- 
barrassed road for Noah to fly from his wicked 
children; he therefore did, fly from them, and 
took a journey of two thousand miles for his 
own amusement; therefore Noah and Fohi are 
the same. 

Another sect of literati, for they all pass among 
the vulgar for very great scholars, assert, that the 
Chinese came, neither from the colony of Sesostris, 
nor from Noah, but are descended from Magog, 
Meshec, and Tubal ; and therefore neither Sesos- 
tris, nor Noah, nor Fohi, are the same. 

It is thus, my friend, that indolence assumes 
the airs of wisdom; and while it tosses the cup 
and ball with infantine folly, desires the world to 
look on, and calls the stupid pastime philosophy 
and learning. Adieu. 



LETTER XC. 
From the s?jne. 

When the men of this country are once turned 
of thirty, they regularly retire every year at pro- 
per intervals to lie in of the spleen. The vulgar, 
unfurnished with the luxurious comforts of the 
soft cushion, down bed, and easy chair, are 
obliged, when the fit is on them, to nurse it up 
by drinking, idleness, and ill humour. In such 
dispositions, unhappy is the foreigner who hap- 
pens to cross them; his long chin, tarnished coat, 
or pinched hat, are sure to receive no quarter. 
If they meet no foreigner, however, to fight with, 
they are in such cases, generally content with 
beating each other. 

The rich, as they have more sensibility, are 
operated upon with greater violence by this dis- 
order. Different from the poor, instead of be- 
coming more insolent, they grow totally unfit for 
opposition. A general here, who would have 
faced a culverin when well, if the fit be on him, 
shall hardly find courage to snuff a candle. An 
admiral, who could have opposed a broadside 
without shrinking, shall sit whole days in his 
chamber, mobbed up in double night-caps, shud- 
dering at the intrusive breeze, and distinguish- 
able from his wife only by his black beard and 
heavy eyebrows. 

In the country this disorder mostly attacks the 
fair -sex, in town it is most unfavourable to the 
men. A lady, who has pined whole years amidst 
cooing doves, and complaining nightingales, in 
rural retirement, shall resume all her vivacity in 
one night at a city gaming-table; her husband, 
who roared, hunted, and got drunk at home, shall 
grow splenetic in town, in proportion to his wife's 
good humour. Upon their arrival in London, 
they change their disorders. In consequence of 
her parties and excursions, he puts on the furred 
cap and scarlet stomacher, and perfectly resembles 
an Indian husband, who, when his wife is safely 
delivered, permits her to transact business abroad, 
while he undergoes all the formality of keeping 
his bed, and receiving all the condolence in her 
place. 

But those who reside constantly in town owe 
this disorder mostly to the influence of the wea- 
ther. It is impossible to describe what a variety 
of transmutations an east wind shall produce : it 



^as been known to change a lady of fashion into 
a parlour couch ; an alderman into a plate of cus- 
tard, and a dispenser of justice into a rat-trap. 
Even philosophers themselves are not exempt 
from its influence; it has often converted a poet 
into a coral and bells, and a patriot senator into a 
dumb waiter. 

Some days ago, I went to visit the man in 
black, and entered his house with that cheerful- 
ness which the certainty of a favourable reception 
always inspires. Upon opening the door of his 
apartment, I found him with the most rueful face 
imaginable, in a morning-gown and flannel night- 
cap, earnestly employed in learning to blow the 
German flute. Struck with the absurdity of a 
man in the decline of life thus blowing away all 
his constitution and spirits, even without the 
consolation of being musical, I ventured to ask 
what could induce him to attempt learning so dif- 
ficult an instrument so late in life. To this he 
made no reply, but groaning, and still holding the 
flute to his lips, continued to gaze at me for some 
moments very angrily, and then proceeded to 
practise his gamut as before. After having pro- 
duced a variety of the most hideous tones in na- 
ture; at last turning to me, he demanded whether 
I did not think he made a surprising progress in 
two days? 'You see,' continues he, 'I have got 
the ambusheer already, aud as for fingering, my 
master tells me, I shall have that in a few lessons 
more.' I was so much astonished with this in- 
stance of inverted ambition, that I knew not what 
to reply, but soon discerned the cause of all Iris 
absurdities; my friend was under a metamorpho- 
sis by the power of spleen, and flute-blowing was 
unluckily become his adventitious passion. 

In order, therefore, to banish his anxiety im- 
perceptibly, by seeming to indulge it, I began to 
descant on those gloomy topics, by which philoso- 
phers often get rid of their own spleen by commu- 
nicating it ; the wretchedness of a man in this 
life, the happiness of some wrought out of the 
miseries of others, the necessity that wretches 
should expire under punishment, that rogues 
might enjoy affluence and tranquillity; I led him 
on from the inhumanity of the rich to the ingra- 
titude of the beggar ; from the insincerity of re- 
finement to the fierceness of rusticity ; and at last 
had the good fortune to restore him to his usual 
serenity of temper, by permitting him to expatiate 
upon all the modes of human misery. 

' Some nights ago,' says my friend, ' sitting 
alone by my fire, I happened to look into an 
account of the detection of a set of men called the 
thief-takers. I read over the many hideous cruel- 
ties of those haters of mankind, of their pretended 
friendship to wretches they meant to betray, of 
their sending out men to rob, and then hanging 
them. I could not avoid sometimes interrupting the 
narrative, by crying out, Yet these are men ! As 
I went on, I was informed that they had lived by 
this practice several years, and had been enriched 
by the price of blood — and yet, cried I, I have been 
sent into this world, and am desired to call these 
my brothers ! I read that the very man who led 
the condemned wretch to the gallows was he who 
falsely swore his life away — and yet, continued J, 
that perjurer had just such a nose, such lips, such 
hands, and such eyes as Newton. I at last came 
to the account of the wretch that was searched 
after robbing one of the thief-takers of half-a- 
crown. Those of the confederacy knew that he 



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99 



had got but that single half-crown in the world ; 
after a long search, therefore, which they knew 
would be fruitless, and taking from him half-a- 
crown, which they knew was all he had, one of 
the gang compassionately cried out, Alas! poor 
creature, let him keep all the rest he has got, it 
will do him service in Newgate, where we are 
sending him. This was an instance of such com- 
plicated guilt and hypocrisy, that I threw down 
the book in an agony of rage, and began to think 
with malice of all the human kind. I sat silent 
for some minutes, and soon perceiving the ticking 
of my watch beginning to grow noisy and trouble- 
some, I quickly placed it out of hearing, and 
strove to resume my serenity. But the watchman 
soon gave me a second alarm. I had scarcely 
recovered from this, when my peace was assaulted 
| by the wind at my window ; and when that ceased 
to blow, I listened for death-watches in the wains- 
cot. I now found my whole system discomposed. 
I strove to find a resource in philosophy and 
reason ; but what could I oppose, or where direct 
my blow, when I could see no enemy to combat. 
I saw no misery approaching, nor knew any I had 
to fear, yet still I was miserable. Morning came, 
I sought for tranquillity in dissipation, sauntered 
from one place of public resort to- another, but 
found myself disagreeable to my acquaintance, 
and ridiculous to others. I tried at different 
times, dancing, fencing, and riding. I resolved 
geometrical problems, shaped tobacco-stoppers, 
wrote verses, and cut paper. At last I placed my 
affections on music, and find, that earnest employ- 
ment, if it cannot cure, at least will palliate every 
anxiety.' Adieu. 



LETTER XCI. 

From the same. 

It is no unpleasing contemplation to consider the 
influence which soil and climate have upon the 
disposition of the inhabitants, the animals, and 
vegetables, of different countries. That among 
the brute creation is much more visible than in 
man, and that in vegetables more than either. 
In some places, those plants which are entirely 
poisonous at home, lose their deleterious quality 
by being carried abroad. There are serpents in 
Macedonia so harmless as to be used as play- 
things for children ; and we are told that, in some 
parts of Fez, there are lions so very timorous as 
to be scared away, though coming in herds, by 
the cries of women. 

I know of no country, where the influence of 
climate and soil is more visible than in England ; 
the same hidden cause which gives courage to 
their dogs and cocks, gives also fierceness to their 
men. But chiefly this ferocity appears among 
the vulgar. The polite of every country pretty 
nearly resemble each other. But as in simpling, 
it is among the uncultivated productions of nature 
we are to examine the characteristic differences 
of climate and soil; so in an estimate of the 
genius of the people, we must look among the 
sons of unpolished rusticity. The vulgar English, 
therefore, may be easily distinguished from all the 
rest of the world by superior pride, impatience, 
and a peculiar hardness of soul. 

Perhaps no qualities in the world are more sus- 
ceptible of a fine polish than these ; artificial com- 
plaisance and easy deference being super-induced 



over these, generally forms a great character; 
something at once elegant and majestic; affable, 
yet sincere. Such, in general, are the better sort; 
but they who are left in primitive rudeness, are 
the least disposed for society with others, or com- 
fort internally, of any people under the sun. 

The poor, indeed, of every country, are but 
little prone to treat each other with tenderness ; 
their own miseries are too apt to engross all their 
pity ; and perhaps, too, they give but little com- 
miseration, as they find but little from others. 
But, in England, the poor treat each other upon 
every occasion with more than savage animosity, 
and as if they were in a state of open war by 
nature. In China, if two porters should meet in 
a narrow street, they would lay down their bur- 
dens,' make a thousand excuses to each other for 
the accidental interruption, and beg pardon on 
their knees ; if two men of the same occupation 
should meet here, they would first begin to scold, 
and at last to beat each other. One would think 
they had miseries enough resulting from penury 
and labour, not to increase them by ill-nature 
among themselves, and subjection to new penal- 
ties; but such considerations never weigh with 
them. 

But, to recompense this strange absurdity, they 
are in the main generous, brave, and enterprising. 
They feel the slightest injuries with a degree of 
ungoverned impatience, but resist the greatest 
calamities with surprising fortitude. Those mise- 
ries under which any other people in the world 
would sink, they have often showed they were 
capable of enduring: if accidentally cast upon 
some desolate coast, their perseverance is beyond 
what any other nation is capable of sustaining ; 
if imprisoned for crimes, their efforts to escape are 
greater than among others. The peculiar strength 
of their prisons, when compared to those else- 
where, argues their hardiness ; even the strongest 
prisons I have ever seen in other countries, would 
be very insufficient to confine the untameable 
spirit of an Englishman. In short, what man 
dares do in circumstances of danger, an English- 
man will. His virtues seem to sleep in the calm, 
and are called out only to combat the kindred 
storm. 

But the "greatest eulogy of this people, is the 
generosity of their miscreants; the tenderness in 
general of their robbers and highwaymen. Per- 
haps no people can produce instances of the same 
kind, where the desperate mix pity with injus- 
tice ; still showing that they understand a distinc- 
tion in crimes, and even in acts of violence have 
still some tincture of remaining virtue. In every 
other country, robbery and murder go almost 
always together; here it seldom happens, except 
upon ill-judged resistance or pursuit. The ban- 
ditti of other countries are unmerciful to a su- 
preme degree ; the highwayman and robber here 
are generous, at least, in their intercourse among 
each other. Taking therefore my opinion of .the 
English from the virtues and vices practised 
among the vulgar, they at once present to a 
stranger all their faults, and keep their virtues 
up only for the inquiring eye of a philosopher. 

Foreigners are generally shocked at their inso- 
lence upon first coming among them ; they find 
themselves ridiculed and insulted in every street ; 
they, meet with none of those trifling civilities so 
frequent elsewhere, which are instances of mu- 
tual good-will without previous acquaintance; 



100 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



they travel through the country either too igno- 
rant or too obstinate to cultivate a closer acquaint- 
ance; meet every moment something to excite 
their disgust, and return home to characterize 
this as the region of spleen, insolence, and ill- 
nature. In short, England would be the last 
place in the world I would travel to by way of 
amusement; but the first for instruction. I 
would choose to have others for my acquaintance, 
but Englishmen for my friends. 



LETTER XCII. 

To the same. 

The mind is ever ingenious in making its* own 
distress. The wandering beggar, who has none 
to protect, to feed, or to shelter him, fancies com- 
plete happiness in labour and a full meal; take 
him from rags and want, feed, clothe, and employ 
him, his wishes now rise one step above his sta- 
tion ; he could be happy were he possessed of rai- 
ment, food, and ease. Suppose his wishes grati- 
fied even in these, his prospects widen as he 
ascends ; he finds himself in affluence and tran- 
quillity indeed, but indolence soon breeds anxiety, 
and he desires not only to be freed from pain, but 
to be possessed of pleasure : pleasure is granted 
him, and this but opens his soul to ambition, and 
ambition will be sure to taint his future happiness, 
either .with jealousy, disappointment, or fatigue. 

But of all the arts of distress found out by man 
for his own torment, perhaps that of a philosophic 
misery is most truly ridiculous; a passion no 
where carried to so extravagant an excess, as in 
the country where I now reside. It is not enough 
to engage all the compassion of a philosopher 
here, that his own globe is harassed with wars, 
pestilence, or barbarity, he shall grieve for the 
inhabitants of the moon, if the situation of her 
imaginary mountains happens to alter ; and dread 
the extinction of the sun, if the spots on his sur- 
face happen to increase : one should imagine that 
philosophy was introduced to make men happy, 
but here it serves to make hundreds miserable. 

My landlady, some days ago, brought me the 
diary of a philosopher of this desponding sort, who 
had lodged in the apartment before me. It con- 
tains the history of a life, which seems to be one 
continued tissue of sorrow, apprehension, and dis- 
tress. A single week will serve as a specimen of 
the whole. 

Monday. — In what a transient decaying situa- 
tion are we placed, and what various reasons 
does philosophy furnish to make mankind un- 
happy! A single grain of mustard shall continue 
to produce its similitude through numberless 
successions ; yet what has been granted to this 
little seed has been denied to our planetary sys- 
tem; the mustard- seed is still unaltered, but the 
system is growing old, and must quickly fall to 
decay. How terrible will it be, when the motions 
of all the planets have at last become so irregular 
as to need repairing, when the moon shall fall into 
frightful paroxysms of alteration, when the earth, 
deviating from its ancient track, and with every 
other planet forgetting its circular revolutions, 
shall become so eccentric that, unconfined by the 
laws of system, it shall fly off into boundless space, 
to knock against some distant world, or fall in 
upon the sun, either extinguishing his light, or 



burned up by his flames in a moment. Perhaps 
while I write, this dreadful change is begun. 
Shield me from universal ruin! Yet idiot man 
laughs, sings, and rejoices in the very face of the 
sun, and seems no way touched with his situa- 
tion. 

Tuesday. — Went to bed in great distress, 
awakened, and was comforted by considering, 
that this change was to happen at some indefinite 
time, and therefore, like death, the thought of it 
might easily be borne. But there is a revolution, 
a fixed determined revolution, which must cer- 
tainly come to pass; yet which, by good fortune, 
I shall never feel, except in my posterity. The 
obliquity of the equator with the ecliptic, is now 
twenty minutes less than when it was observed 
two thousand years ago by Piteas. If this be the 
case, in six thousand the obliquity will be still 
2ess by a whole degree. This being supposed, it 
is evident, that our earth, as Louville has clearly 
proved, has a motion, by which the climates must 
necessarily change place, and, in the space of j 
about one million of years, England shall actually 
travel to the Antarctic pole. I shudder at the 
change! How shall our unhappy grandchildren 
endure the hideous climate! A million of years 
will soon be accomplished; they are but a mo- 
ment when compared to eternity, then shall our I 
charming country, as I may say, in a moment of | 
time, resemble the hideous wilderness of Nova 
Zembla. 

Wednesday. — To-night, by my calculation, 
the long-predicted comet is to make its first ap- 
pearance. Heavens, what terrors are impending 
over our little dim speck of earth ! Dreadful visi- 
tation ! Are we to be scorched in its fires, or only 
smothered in the vapour of its tail? That is the 
question ! Thoughtless mortals, go build houses, 
plant orchards, purchase estates, for to-morrow 
you die. — But what if the comet should not I 
come ! That would be equally fatal. Comets are 
servants, which periodically return to supply the 
sun with fuel. If our sun, therefore, should be 
disappointed of the expected supply, and ail his 
fuel be in the mean time burnt out, he must ex- 
pire like an exhausted taper. What a miserable 
situation must our earth be in without his enliven- 
ing ray? Have we not seen several neighbouring 
suns entirely disappear? Has not a fixed star, 
near the tail of the Ram, lately been quite extin- 
guished ? 

Thursday. — The comet has not j'et appeared ; 
I am sorry for it ; first, sorry because my calcu- 
lation is false ; secondly, sorry lest the sun should 
want fuel; thirdly, sorry lest the wits should 
laugh at our erroneous predictions ; and fourthly, 
sorry because, if it appears to-night, it must ne- 
cessarily come within the sphere of the earth's 
attraction ; and Heaven help the unhappy coun- 
try on which it happens to fall ! 

Friday. — Our whole society have been out, all 
eager in search of the comet. We have seen n'ot 
less than sixteen comets in different parts of the 
heavens. However, we are unanimously resolved 
to fix upon one only to be the comet expected. 
That near Virgo wants nothing but a tail to fit it 
out completely for terrestrial admiration. 

Saturday. — The moon is, I find, at her old 
pranks. Her appulses, librations, and other ir- 
regularities, indeed amaze me. My daughter too 
is this morning gone of? with a grenadier. No 
way surprising. I was never able to give her a 



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101 



relish for wisdom. She ever promised to be a 
mere expletive in the creation. But the moon, 
the moon gives me real uneasiness ; I fondly 
fancied I had fixed her. I had thought her con- 
stant, and constant only to me , but every night 
discovers her infidelity, and proves me a desolate 
and abandoned lover. Adieu. 



LETTER XCIII. 

To the same. 

It is surprising what an influence titles shall 
have upon the mind, even though these titles be 
of our own making. Like children, we dress up 
the puppets in finery, and then stand in astonish- 
ment at the plastic wonder. I have been told of 
a rat-catcher here, who strolled for a long time 
about the villages near town, without finding any 
employment; at last, however, he thought pro- 
per to take the title of his majesty's rat-catcher in 
ordinary, and this succeeded beyond his expecta- 
tions : when once it was known he caught rats at 
court, all were ready to give him countenance and 
employment. 

But of all the people, they who make books 
seem most perfectly sensible of the advantage of 
titular dignity. All seem convinced that a book 
written by vulgar hands, can neither instruct nor 
improve; none but kings, chams, and manda- 
rines, can wrrfe with any probability of success. 
If the titles inform me right, not only kings and 
courtiers, but emperors themselves, in this coun- 
try, periodically supply the press. 

A man here who should write, and honestly 
confess that he wrote for bread, might as well 
send his manuscript to fire the baker's oven ; not 
one creature will read him : all must be court- 
bred poets, or pretend at least to be court-bred, 
who can expect to please. Should the caitiff 
fairly avow a design of emptying our pockets, and 
filling his own, every reader would instantly for- 
sake him ; even those who write for bread them- 
selves, would combine to worry him, perfectly 
sensible, that his attempt only served to take the 
bread out of their mouths. 

And yet this silly prepossession the more 
amazes me, when I consider, that almost all the 
excellent productions in wit that have appeared 
here, were purely the offspring of necessity ; their 
Drydens, Butlers, Otways, and Farquhars, were 
all writers for bread. Believe me, my friend, 
hunger has a most amazing faculty for sharpening 
the genius ; and he who, with a full belly, can 
think like a hero, after a course of fasting, shall 
rise to the sublimity of a demi-god. 

But what will most amaze is, that this very set 
of men, who are now so much depreciated by 
fools, are, however, the very best writers they 
have among them at present. For my own part, 
were I to buy a hat, I would not have it from a 
stocking-maker, but a hatter ; were I to buy 
shoes, I should not go to the tailor for that pur- 
pose. It is just so with regard to wit : did I, for 
my life, desire to be well served, I would apply 
only to those who made it their trade, and lived 
by it. You smile at the oddity of my opinion ; 
but be assured, my friend, that wit is in some 
measure mechanical, and that a man long habi- 
tuated to catch at even its resemblance, will at 



last be happy enough to possess the substance ; 
by a long habit of writing, he acquires a justness 
of thinking, and a mastery of manner, which 
holiday writers, even with ten times his genius, 
may vainly attempt to equal. 

How then are they deceived, who expect from 
title, dignity, and exterior circumstance, an ex- 
cellence which is in some measure acquired by 
habit, and sharpened by necessity ; you have 
seen, like me, many literary reputations promo- 
ted by the influence of fashion, which have scarce 
survived the possessor ; you have seen the poor 
hardly earn the little reputation they acquired, 
and their merit only acknowledged, when they 
were incapable of enjoying the pleasures of popu- 
larity ; such, however, is the reputation worth 
possessing, that which is hardly earned is hardly 
lost. Adieu. 



LETTER XCIV. 

From Hingpo in Moscow, to Lien Chi Altangi in London. 

Where will my disappointments end ? Must I 
still be doomed to accuse the severity of my for- 
tune, and show my constancy in distress rather 
than moderation in prosperity ? I had at least 
hopes of conveying my charming companion safe 
from the reach of every enemy, and of again re- 
storing her to her native soil. But those hopes 
are now no more. 

Upon leaving Terki, we took the nearest road 
to the dominions of Russia. We passed the Ural 
mountains covered in eternal snow, and traversed 
the forest of Ufa, where the prowling bear and 
shrieking hyena keep an undisputed possession. 
We next embarked upon the rapid river Bulija ; 
and made the best of our way to the banks of the 
Wolga, where it waters the fruitful valleys of 
Casan. 

There were two vessels in company, properly 
equipped and armed, in order to oppose the 
Wolga pirates, who, we were informed, infested 
this river. Of all mankind these pirates are the 
most terrible. They are composed of the crimi- 
nals and outlawed peasants of Prussia, who fly to 
the forests that lie along the banks of the Wolga 
for protection. Here they join in parties, lead a 
savage life, and have no other subsistence but 
plunder. Being deprived of houses, friends, or a 
fixed habitation, they become more terrible even 
than the tiger, and as insensible to all the feel- 
ings of humanity. They neither give quarter to 
those they conquer, nor receive it when over- 
powered themselves. The severity of the laws 
against them, serves to increase their barbarity, 
and seems to make them a neutral species of 
beings, between the wildness of the lion, and the 
subtilty of the man. When taken alive, their 
punishment is hideous. A floating gibbet is 
erected, which is run down with the stream ; 
here, upon an iron hook struck under their ribs, 
and upon which the whole weight of their body 
depends, they are left to expire in the most terri- 
ble agonies ; some being thus found to linger se- 
veral days successively. 

We were but three days' voyage from the con- 
fluence of this river into the Wolga, when we 
perceived at a distance behind us an armed bark 
coming up with the assistance of sails and oars^ 



102 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



in order to attack us. The dreadful signal of 
death was hung upon the mast, and our captain 
■with his glass could easily discern them to be pi- 
rates. It is impossible to describe our consterna- 
tion on this occasion; the whole crew instantly 
came together, to consult the properest means of 
safety. It was therefore soon determined to send 
off our women and valuable commodities in one 
of our vessels, and that the men should stay in 
the other, and boldly oppose the enemy. This 
resolution was soon put into execution, and I 
now reluctantly parted from the beautiful Zelis, 
for the first time since our retreat from Persia. 
The vessel in which she was disappeared to my 
longing eyes in proportion as that of the pirates 
approached us. They soon came up; but upon 
examining our strength, and perhaps sensible of 
the manner in which we sent off our most valu- 
able effects, they seemed more eager to pursue 
the vessel we had sent away, than attack us. In 
this manner they continued to harass us for 
three days ; still endeavouring to pass us without 
fighting. But, on the fourth day, finding it en- 
tirely impossible, and despairing to seize the ex- 
pected booty, they desisted from their endeavours, 
and left us to pursue our voyage without inter- 
ruption. 

Our joy on this occasion was great; but soon a 
disappointment more terrible, because unexpect- 
ed, succeeded. The bark in which our women 
and treasure were sent off, was wrecked upon 
the banks of the Wolga, for want of a proper num- 
ber of hands to manage her, and the whole crew 
carried by the peasants up the country. Of this, 
however, we were not sensible till our arrival at 
Moscow; where, expecting to meet our separated 
bark, we were informed of its misfortune, and 
our loss. Need I paint the situation of my mind 
on this occasion ? Need I describe all I feel, when 
I despair of beholding the beautiful Zelis more ! 
fancy had dressed the future prospect of my life 
in the gayest colouring, but one unexpected 
stroke of fortune has robbed it of every charm. 
Her dear idea mixes with every scene of pleasure, 
and without her presence to enliven it, the whole 
becomes tedious, insipid, insupportable. I will 
confess, now that she is lost, I will confess, I 
loved her; nor is it in the power of time, or of 
reason, to erase her image from my heart. 
Adieu. 



LETTER XCV. 
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, at Moscow.* 

Your misfortunes are mine. But as every pe- 
riod of life is marked with its own, you must 
learn to endure them. Disappointed love makes 
the misery of youth; disappointed ambition, that 
of manhood; and successless avarice, that of age 
These three attack us through life ; and it is our 
duty to stand upon our guard. To love, we 
ought to oppose dissipation, and endeavour to 
change the object of the affections ; to ambition, 
the happiness of indolence and obscurity ; and to 
avarice, the fear of soon dying. These are the 
shields with which we should arm ourselves ; and 
thus make every scene of life, if not ,pleasing, at 
least supportable. 

* This letter is a rhapsody from the maxims of the phi- 
losopher Me. Vide Lett, eurieuse et edifiant. Vide etiara 
DuJHalde, vol. ii. p. 98. 



Men complain of not finding a place of repose. 
They are in the wrong ; they have it for seeking. 
What they indeed should complain of is, that the 
heart is an enemy to that very repose they seek. 
To themselves alone should they impute their 
discontent. They seek within the short span of 
life to satisfy a thousand desires ; each of which 
alone is insatiable. One month passes and ano- 
ther comes on ; the year ends, and then begins ; 
but man is still unchanging in folly, still blindly 
continuing in prejudice. To the wise man, every 
climate and every soil is pleasing ; to him a par- 
terre of flowers is the famous valley of gold : to 
him a little brook, ' the fountain of the young 
peach-trees ;' * to such a man, the melody of 
birds is more ravishing than the harmony of a 
full concert: and the tincture of the cloud pre- 
ferable to the touch of the finest pencil. 

The life of a man is a journey ; a journey that 
must be travelled, however bad the roads or the 
accommodation. If, in the beginning, it is found 
dangerous, narrow, and difficult, it must either 
grow better in the end, or we shall by custom 
learn to bear its inequality. 

But though I see you incapable of penetrating 
into grand principles, attend, at least, to a simile 
adapted to every apprehension. I am mounted 
upon a wretched ass. I see another man before 
me upon a sprightly horse, at which I find some 
uneasiness. I look behind me and see numbers 
on foot stopping under heavy burdens ; let me 
learn to pity their estate, and thank Heaven for 
my own. 

Shingfu, when under misfortunes, would, in 
the beginning, weep like a child ; but he soon re- 
covered his former tranquillity. After indulging 
grief for a few days, he would become, as usual, 
the most merry old man in all the province of 
Shansi. About the time that his wife died, his 
possessions were all consumed by fire, and his 
only son sold into captivity ; Shingfu grieved for 
one day, and the next went to dance at a manda- 
rine's door for his dinner. The company were 
surprised to see the old man so merry when suf- 
fering such great losses ; and the mandarine him- 
self coming out, asked him, how he, who had 
grieved so much and given way to the calamity 
the day before, could now be so cheerful? ' You 
ask me one question,' cries the old man, • let me 
answer by asking another: Which is the most 
durable, a hard thing, or a soft thing; that which 
resists, or that which makes no resistance?' — ' A 
hard thing to be sure,' replied the mandarine. 
' There you are wrong,' returned Shingfu : « I 
am now fourscore years old: and if you look in 
my mouth, you will find that I have lost all my 
teeth, but not a bit of my tongue. Adieu. 



LETTER XCVI. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Fekin, in China. 

The manner of grieving for our departed friends 
in China is very different from that of Europe. 
The mourning colour of Europe is black ; that of 
China white. When a parent or relation dies 
here, for they seldom mourn for friends, it is only 
clapping on a suit of sables, grimacing it for a few 

* This passage the editor docs not understand. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WOIIUD. 



103 



days, 'and all, soon forgotten, goes on as before ; 
not a single creature missing the deceased, except 
perhaps a favourite housekeeper, or a favourite 
cat. 

On the contrary, with us in China it is a very 
serious affair. The piety with which I have seen 
you behave on one of these occasions should 
never be forgotten. I remember it was upon the 
death of thy grandmother's maiden sister. The 
coffin was exposed in the principal hall in public 
view. Before it Avere placed the figures of 
eunuchs, horses, tortoises, and other animals, in 
attitudes of grief and respect. The more distant 
relations of the old lady, and I among the num- 
ber, came to pay our compliments of condolence, 
and to salute the deceased, after the manner of 
our country. We had scarce presented our wax 
candles and perfumes, and given the bowl of 
departure, when, crawling on his belly from under 
a curtain, out came the reverend Fum Hoam 
himself, in all the dismal solemnity of distress. 
Your looks were set for sorrow; your clothing 
consisted of a hempen bag tied round the neck 
with a string. For two long months did this 
mourning continue. By night you lay stretched 
on a single mat, and sat on the stool of discontent 
by day. Pious man,, who could thus set an ex- 
ample of sorrow and decorum to our country. 
Pious country, where if we do not grieve at the 
departure of our friends for their sakes, at least 
we are taught to regret them for our own. 

All is very different here; amazement all. 
What sort of people am I got amongst ! Fum, 
thou son of Fo, what sort of people am I got 
amongst; no crawling round the cofun ; no dress- 
ing up in hempen bags ; no lying on mats, nor 
sitting on stools. Gentlemen here shall put on 
first mourning with as sprightly an air as if pre- 
paring for a birth-night; and widows shall ac- 
tually dress for another husband in their weeds 
for the former. The best jest of all is, that our 
merry mourners clap bits of muslin on their 
sleeves, and these are called weepers. Weeping 
muslin ! alas, alas, very sorrowful truly ! These 
weepers then, it seems, are to bear the whole 
burden of the distress. 

But I have had the strongest instance of this 
contrast; this tragi-comical behaviour in distress, 
upon a recent occasion. Their king, whose de- 
parture, though sudden, was not unexpected, died 
after a reign of many years. His age, and un- 
certain state of health, served, in some measure, 
to diminish the sorrow of his subjects, and their 
expectations from his successor seemed to balance 
their minds between uneasiness and satisfaction. 
But how ought they to have behaved on such an 
occasion? Surely they ought rather to have en- 
deavoured to testify their gratitude to their de- 
ceased friend, than to proclaim their hopes of the 
future. Sure even his successor must suppose 
their love to wear the face of adulation, which so 
quickly changed the object. However, the very 
same day on which the old king died, they made 
rejoicings for the new. 

For my part, I have no conception of this new 
manner of mourning and rejoicing in a breath; of 
being merry and sad; of mixing a funeral pro- 
cession with a jig and a bonfire. At least, it 
would have been just, that they who flattered the 
ting while living for virtues which he had not, 
should lament him dead for those he really had. 
In this universal cause for national distress, as 



I had no interest myself, so it is but natural to 
suppose I felt no real affliction. ' In all the losses 
of our friends,' says a European philosopher, 'we 
first consider how much our welfare is affected by 
their departure, and moderate our real grief just 
in the same proportion.' Now, as I had neither 
received nor expected to receive favours from 
kings, or their flatterers; as I had no acquaint- 
ance in particular with their late monarch; as I 
knew that the place of a king is soon supplied ; 
and as the Chinese proverb has it, that though 
the world may sometimes want cobblers to mend 
their shoes, there is no danger of its wanting 
emperors to rule their kingdoms ; from such con- 
siderations, I could bear the loss of a king with 
the most philosophic resignation, however, I 
thought it my duty at least to appear sorrowful ; 
to put on a melancholy aspect, or to set my face 
by that of the people. 

The first company I came amongst, after the 
news became general, was a set of jolly com- 
panions, who were drinking prosperity to the en- 
suing reign. I entered the room with looks of 
despair, and even expected applause for the su- 
perlative misery of my countenance. Instead of 
that, I was universally condemned by the com- 
pany for a grimacing son of a whore, and desired 
to take away my penitential phiz to some other 
quarter. I now corrected my former mistake, 
and with the most sprightly air imaginable, en- 
tered a company where they were talking over 
the ceremonies of the approaching funeral. Here 
I sat for some time with an air of pert vivacity; 
when one of the chief mourners, immediately ob- 
serving my good humour, desired me, if I pleased 
to go and grin somewhere else; they wanted no 
disaffected scoundrels there. Leaving this com- 
pany, therefore, I was resolved to assume a look 
perfectly neutral; and have ever since been 
studying the fashionable air, something between 
jest and earnest; a complete virginity of face, un- 
contaminated with the smallest symptom of 
meaning. 

But though grief be a very slight affair hers, 
the mourning, my friend, is a very important 
concern. When an emperor dies in China, the 
whole expense of the solemnities is defrayed from 
the royal coffers. When the great die here, man- 
darines are ready enough to order mourning; but 
I do not see they are so ready to pay for it. If 
they send me down from court the grey undress 
frock, or the black coat without pocket-holes, I 
am willing enough to comply with their com- 
mands, and wear both; but, by the head of Con- 
fucius ! to be obliged to wear black, and buy it 
into the bargain, is more than my tranquillity of 
temper can bear. What, order me to wear mourn- 
ing before they know whether I can buy it or no ! 
Fum, thou son of Fo, what sort of a people am I 
got amongst ; where being out of black is a certain 
symptom of poverty; where those who have 
miserable faces cannot have mourning, and those 
who can have mourning will not wear a miserable 
face. 



LETTER XCVIT. 

From the same. 

It is usual with the booksellers here, when a 
book has given universal pleasure upon one sub- 



104 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



ject, to bring out several more upon the same 
plan; which are sure to have purchasers and 
readers, from that desire which all men have to 
view a pleasing subject on every side. The first 
performance serves rather to awake than satisfy 
attention ; and when that is once moved, the 
slightest effort serves to continue its progression ; 
the merit of the first diffuses a light sufficient to 
illuminate the succeeding efforts; and no other 
object can be relished till that is exhausted. A 
stupid work coming thus immediately in the 
train of an applauded performance, weans the 
mind from the object of its pleasure; and re- 
sembles the sponge thrust into the mouth of a 
discharged culverin, in order to adapt it for a new 
explosion. 

This manner, however, of drawing off a subject, 
or a peculiar mode of writing to the dregs, effec- 
tually precludes a revival of that subject or man- 
ner, for some time, for the future; the sated 
reader turns from it with a kind of literary 
nausea ; and though the titles of books are the 
part of them most read, yet he has scarce per- 
severance enough to wade through the title-page. 
Of this number I own myself one : I am now 
grown callous to several subjects, and different 
kinds of composition : whether such originally 
pleased, I will not take upon me to determine; 
but at present I spurn a new book, merely upon 
seeing its name in an advertisement; nor have 
the smallest curiosity to look beyond the first 
leaf, even though in the second the author pro- 
mises his own face neatly engraven on copper. 

I am become a perfect epicure in reading; plain 
beef or solid mutton will never do. I am for 
a Chinese dish of bears' claws and birds' nests. I, 
am for sauce strong with assafoetida, or fuming 
with garlic. For this reason there are a hundred 
very wise, learned, virtuous, well-intended pro- 
ductions, that have no charms for me. Thus, for 
the soul of me, I could never find courage nor 
grace enough to wade above two pages deep into 
thoughts upon God and nature, or thoughts upon 
providence, or thoughts upon free grace, or indeed 
into thoughts upon any tiling at all. I can no 
longer meditate with meditations for every day in 
the year ; essays upon divers subjects cannot 
allure me, though never so interesting; and as 
for funeral sermons, or even thanksgiving ser- 
mons, I can neither weep with the one, nor 
rejoice with the other. 

But it is chiefly in gentle poetry, wnere I 
I seldom look farther than the title. The truth is, 
| I take up books to be told something new; but 
here, as it is now managed, the reader is told 
I nothings He opens the book, and there finds 
very good words, truly, and much exactness of 
rhyme, but no information. A parcel of gaudy 
images pass on before his imagination like the 
figures in a dream ; but curiosity, induction, 
reason, and the whole train of affections, are fast 
asleep. The jucunda et idonea vitcs ; those sallies 
which mend the heart while they amuse the fancy, 
are quite forgotten ; so that a reader who would 
take up some modern applauded performance of 
this kind, must, in order to be pleased, first leave 
his good sense behind him, take for his recom- 
pense and guide blotted and compound »pithet, 
and dwell on paintings, just indeed, because 
laboured with minute exactness. 

If we examine, however, our internal sen- 
sations, we shall find ourselves but little pleased 



with such laboured vanities : we shall find that 
our applause rather proceeds from a kind of con- 
tagion caught up from others, and which we con- 
tribute to diffuse, than from what we privately 
feel. There are some subjects of which almost all 
the world perceive the futility; yet all combine in 
imposing upon each other as worthy of praise. 
But chiefly this imposition obtains in literature, 
where men publicly contemn what they relish 
with rapture in private, and approve abroad what 
has given disgust at home. The truth is, we 
deliver those criticisms in public which are sup- 
posed to be best calculated not to do justice to the 
author, but to impress others with an opinion of 
our superior discernment. 

But let works of this kind, which have already 
come off with such applause, enjoy it all. It is 
neither my wish to diminish, as I was never con- 
siderable enough to add to their fame. But, for 
the future, I fear there are many poems of which 
I shall find spirits to read but the title. In the 
first place all odes upon winter, to summer, or 
autumn; in short, all odes, epodes, and monodies, 
whatsoever, shall hereafter be deemed too polite, 
classical, obscure, and refined, to be read, and en- 
tirely above human comprehension. Pastorals 
are pretty enough— for those that like them— but 
to me Thyrsis is one of the most insipid fellows I 
ever conversed with; and as for Corydon, I do not 
choose his company. Elegies and epistles are 
very fine to those to whom they are addressed ; 
and as for epic poems, I am generally able to dis- 
cover the whole plan in reading the two first 
pages. 

Tragedies, however, as they are now made, are 
good instructive moral sermons enough; and it 
would be a fault not to be pleased with good 
things. There I learn several great truths ; as, 
that it is impossible to see into the ways of 
futurity; that punishment always attends the 
villain ; that love is the fond soother of the human 
breast; that we should not resist heaven's will, 
for in resisting heaven's will, heaven's will is 
resisted; with several other sentiments equally 
new, delicate, and striking. Every new tragedy, 
therefore, I shall go to see ; for reflections of this 
nature make a tolerable harmony when mixed up 
with a proper quantity of drum, trumpet, thunder, 
lightning, or the scene shifter's whistle. Adieu. 



LETTER XCVIII. 

| From the same. 

I had some intentions lately of going to visit 
Bedlam, the place where those who go mad are 
confined. I went to wait upon the man in black 
to be my conductor, but I found him preparing to 
go to Westminster-hall, where the English hold 
their courts of justice. It gave me some surprise 
to find my friend engaged in a law-suit, but more 
so when he informed me that it had been depend- 
ing for several years. ' How is it possible,' cried 
I, 'for a man who knows the world to go to law! 
I am well acquainted with the courts of justice in 
China ; they resemble rat-traps every one of them, 
nothing more easy than to get in, but to get out 
again is attended with some difficulty, and more 
cunning than rats are generally found to possess !' 
' Faith,' replied my friend, 'I should not have 
gone to law, but that I was assured of success 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



10.5 



before I began; things were presented to me in so 
alluring a light, that I thought by barely declaring 
myself a candidate for the prize, I had nothing 
more to do but to enjoy the fruits of the victory. 
Thus have I been upon the eve of an imaginary 
triumph every term these ten years ; have tra- 
velled forward with victory ever in my view, but 
ever out of reach: however, at present, I fancy 
we have hampered our antagonist in such a man- 
ner, that, without some unforeseen demur, we 
shall this very day lay him fairly on his back.' 

'If things be so situated,' said I, ' I don't care if 
I attend you to the courts, and partake in the 
pleasure of your success. But prithee,' continued 
I, as we set forward, ' what reasons have you to 
think an affair at last concluded, -which has given 
you so many former disappointments ?'— ' My 
lawyer tells me,' returned he, « that I have Sal- 
keld and Ventris strong in my favour, and that 
there are no less than fifteen cases in point.'—' I 
understand,' said I, 'those are two of your judges 
who have already declared their opinions. — 
'Pardon me,' replied my friend; ' Salkeld and 
Ventris are lawyers who some hundred years ago 
gave their opinion on cases similar to mine ; these 
opinions which make for me my lawyer is to cite, 
and those opinions which look another way are 
cited by the lawyer employed by my antagonist ; 
as I observed, I have Salkeld and Ventris for me, 
he has Coke and Hale for him, and he that has 
most opinions is most likely to carry his cause.' — 
' But where is the necessity,' cried I, ' of pro- 
longing a suit by citing the opinions and reports 
of others, since the same good sense which deter- 
mined lawyers in former ages may serve to guide 
your judges at this day? They at that time gave 
their opinions only from the light of reason ; your 
judges have the same light at present to direct 
them; let me even add, a greater, as in former 
ages there were many prejudices from which the 
present is happily free. If arguing from autho- 
rities be exploded from every other branch of 
learning, why should it be particularly adhered to 
in this ? I plainly foresee how such a method of 
investigation must embarrass every suit, and 
even perplex the student; ceremonies will be 
multiplied, formalities must increase, and more 
time will thus be spent in learning the arts of 
litigation than in the discovery of right.' 

' I see,' cries my friend, ' that you are for a 
speedy administration of justice ; but all the world 
will grant, that the more time that is taken up in 
considering any subject, the better it will be 
understood. Besides, it is the boast of an English- 
man, that his property is secure, and all the 
world will grant, that a deliberate administration 
of justice is the best way to secure his property. 
Why have we so many lawyers, but to secure our 
property ? why so many formalities, but to secure 
our property? Not less than one hundred thousand 
families live in opulence, elegance, and ease, 
merely by securing our property. 

' To embarrass justice,' returned I, ' by a multi- 
plicity of laws, or to hazard it by a confidence in 
our judges, are, I grant, the opposite rocks on 
which legislative wisdom has ever spilt ; in one 
case, the client resembles that emperor who is said 
to have been suffocated with the bed-clothes which 
were only designed to keep him warm; in the 
other, to that town which let the enemy take pos- 
session of its walls, in order to show the world 
how little they depended on aught but courage for 



safety. — But bless me! what numbers do I see 
here— all in black!— how is it possible that half 
this multitude find employment?' — 'Nothing so 
easily conceived,' returned my companion; 'they 
live by watching each other. For instance, the 
catchpole watches the man in debt, the attorney 
watches the catchpole, the counsellor watches the 
attorney, the solicitor the counsellor, and all 
find sufficient employment.' — 'I conceive you,' 
interrupted I, ' they watch each other, but it is 
the client that pays them all for watching ; it puts 
me in mind of a Chinese fable, which is entitled, 
Five animals at a meal.' 

'A grasshopper, filled with dew, was merrily 
singing under a shade; a whangam, that eats 
grasshoppers, had marked it for its prey, and was 
just stretching forth to devour it ; a serpent, that 
had for a long time fed only on whangams, was 
coiled up to fasten on the whangam; a yellow 
bird was just upon the wing to dart upon the ser- 
pent; a hawk had just stooped from above to 
seize the yellow bird; all were intent on their 
prey, and unmindful of their danger: so the 
whangam eat the grasshopper, the serpent eat 
the whangam, the yellow bird the serpent, and 
the hawk the yellow bird; when sousing from on 
high, a vulture gobbled up the hawk, the grass- 
hopper, whangam, and all, in a moment.' 

I had scarce finished my fable, when the lawyer 
came to inform my friend, that his cause was put 
off till another term, that money was wanted to 
retain, and that all the world was of opinion, that 
the very next hearing would bring him off victo- 
rious. ' If so, then,' cries my friend, ' I believe 
it will be my wisest way to continue the cause 
for another term; and, in the mean time, my 
friend here and I will go and see Bedlam.' 
Adieu. 



LETTER XCIX. 

From the same. 

I lately received a visit from the little beau, 
who I found had assumed a new flow of spirits 
with a new suit of clothes. Our discourse hap- 
pened to turn upon the different treatment of the 
fair sex here and in Asia, with the influence of 
beauty in refining our manners and improving 
our conversation. 

I soon perceived he was strongly prejudiced in 
favour of the Asiatic method of treating the sex, 
and that it was impossible to persuade him, but 
that a man was happier who had four wives at his 
command, than he who had only one. ' It is 
true,' cries he, ' your men of fashion in the East 
are slaves, and under some terrors of having their 
throats squeezed by a bowstring ; but what then ? 
they can find ample consolation in a seraglio; they 
make indeed an indifferent figure in conversation 
abroad, but then they have a seraglio to console 
them at home. I am told they have no balls, 
drums, nor operas, but then they have got a 
seraglio; they may be deprived of wine and 
French cookery, but they have a seraglio: a 
seraglio, a seraglio, my dear creature, wipes off 
every inconvenience in the world ! 

1 Besides, I am told, your Asiatic beauties are 
the most convenient women alive, for they have 
no souls ; positively there is nothing in nature I 
should like so much as ladies without souls ; soul, 



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GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS 



here, is the utter ruin of half the sex. A girl of 
eighteen shall have soul enough to spend a hun- 
dred, pounds in the turning up of a trump. Her 
mother shall have soul enough to ride a sweepstake 
match at a horse-race ; her maiden aunt shall have 
soul enough to purchase the furniture of a whole 
toy-shop; and others shall have soul enough to 
behave as if they had no soul at all.' 

• With respect to the soul,' interrupted I, ' the 
Asiatics are much kinder to the fair sex than you 
imagine : instead of one soul, Fohi, the idol of 
China, gives every woman three, the Bramins 
give them fifteen ; and even Mahomet himself no- 
where excludes the sex from Paradise. Abulfeda 
reports, that an old woman one day importuning 
him to know what she ought to do in order to gain 
Paradise? ' My good lady,' answered' the prophet, 
'old women never get there;' 'What, never get 
to Paradise!' returned the matron in a fury. 
' Never,' says he, ' for they always grow young by 
the way.' 

' No, sir,' continued I, ' the men of Asia behave 
with more deference to the sex than you seem to 
imagine. As you of Europe say grace upon sitting 
down to dinner, so it is the custom in China to 
say grace when a man goes to bed to his wife. 
' And may I die,' returned my companion, ' but a 
very pretty ceremony ; for, seriously, sir, I see no 
reason why a man should not be as grateful in one 
situation as in the other. Upon honour, I always 
find myself much more disposed to gratitude on 
the couch of a fine woman, than upon sitting 
down to a sirloin of beef.' 

' Another ceremony,' said I, resuming the con- 
versation, 'in favour of the sex amongst us, is 
the bride's being allowed after marriage her three 
days of freedom. During this interval, a thou- 
sand extravagancies are practised by either sex. 
The lady is placed upon the nuptial bed, and 
numberless monkey tricks are played round to 
divert her. One gentleman smells her perfumed 
handkerchief, another gentleman attempts to untie 
her garters, a third pulls off her shoe to play hunt 
the slipper, another pretends to be an idiot, and 
endeavours to raise a laugh by grimacing; in the 
mean time, the glass goes briskly about, till ladies, 
gentlemen, wife, husband, and all, are mixed 
together in one inundation of arrack punch.' 

' Strike me dumb, deaf, ' and blind,' cried my 
companion, ' but that's very pretty ; there's some 
sense in your Chinese ladies' condescensions; but 
among us, you shall scarce find one of the whole 
sex that shall hold her good humour for three 
days together. No later than yesterday, I hap- 
pened to say some civil things to a citizen's wife 
of my acquaintance, not because I loved her, but 
because I had charity ; and what do you think 
was the tender creature's reply? Only that she de- 
tested my pig-tail wig, high-heeled shoes, and 
sallow complexion. That is all, nothing more! 
Yes, by the heavens, though she was more ugly 
than an unpainted actress, I found her more inso- 
lent than a thorough bred woman of quality.' 

He was proceeding in this wild manner, when 
his invective was interrupted by the man in 
black, who entered the apartment, introducing 
his niece, a young lady of exquisite beaut3 r . Her 
very appearance was sufficient to silence the 
severest satirist of the sex ; easy without pride, 
and free without impudence, she seemed capable 
of supplying every sense with pleasure; her looks, 
her conversation, were natural and unconstrained; 



she had neither been taught to languish nor ogle, 
to laugh without a jest, or sigh without sorrow. 
I found that she had just returned from abroad, 
and had been conversant in the manners of the 
world. Curiosity prompted me to ask several 
questions, but she declined them all. I own, I 
never found myself so strongly prejudiced in fa- 
vour of apparent merit before ; and could willingly 
have prolonged our conversation, but the company 
after some time withdrew. Just, however, before 
the little beau took his leave, he called me aside, 
and requested I would change him a twenty pound 
bill, which I was incapable of doing, he was con- 
tented with borrowing half-a-crown. Adieu. 



LETTER C. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, by the way of Moseow. 

Few virtues have been more praised by moralists 
than generosity : every practical treatise of ethics 
tends to increase our sensibility of the distress of 
others, and to relax the grasp of frugality. Phi- 
losophers that are poor, praise it because they are 
gainers by its effects; and the opulent Seneca 
himself has written a treatise on benefits, though 
he was known to give nothing away. 

But among many who have enforced the duty 
of giving, I am surprised there are none to incul- 
cate the ignominy of receiving, to show that by 
every favour we accept, we in some measure for- 
feit our native freedom, and that a state of con- 
tinual dependence on the generosity of others is a 
life of gradual debasement. 

Were men taught to despise the receiving obli- 
gations with the same force of reasoning and 
declamation that they are instructed to confer 
them, we might then see every person in society 
filling up the requisite duties of his station with 
cheerful industry, neither relaxed by hope, nor 
sullen from disappointment. 

Every favour a man receives, in some measure, 
sinks him below his dignity, and in proportion to 
the value of the benefit, or the frequency of its 
acceptance, he gives up so much of his natural 
independence. He, therefore, who thrives upon 
the unmerited bounty of another, if he has any 
sensibility, suffers the worst of servitude: the 
shackled slave may murmur without reproach, 
but the humble dependent is taxed with ingrati- 
tude upon every symptom of discontent ; the one 
may rave round the walls of his cell, but the other 
lingers in all the silence of mental confinement. 
To increase his distress, every new obligation but 
adds to the former load which kept the vigorous 
mind from rising; till at last, elastic no longer, it 
shapes itself to constraint, and puts on habitual 
servility. 

It is thus with the feeling mind, but there are 
some who, born without any share of sensibility, 
receive favour after favour, and still cringe for 
more; who accept the offer of generosity with as 
little reluctance as the wages of merit, and even 
make thanks for past benefits and indirect peti- 
tions for new; such, I grant, can suffer no de- 
basement from dependence, since they were ori- 
ginally as vile as was possible to be ; dependence 
degrades only the ingenuous, but leaves the sor- 
did mind in pristine meanness. In this manner, 
therefore, long continued generosity is misplaced, 
or it is injurious; it either finds a man worthless, 



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107 



or it makes him so; and true it is, that the person 
who is contented to be often obliged, ought not to 
he obliged at all. 

Yet, while I describe the meanness of a life of 
continued dependence, I would not be thought to 
include those natural or political subordinations 
which subsist in every society; for in such, though 
dependence is exacted from the inferior, yet the 
obligation on either side is mutual. The son 
must rely upon his parent for support, but the 
parent lies under the same obligations to give, 
that the other has to expect; the subordinate 
officer must receive the commands of his superior, 
but for this obedience, the former has a right to 
demand an intercourse of favour ; such is not the 
dependence I would depreciate, but that where 
every expected favour must be the result of mere 
benevolence in the giver, where the benefit can be 
kept without remorse, or transferred without 
injustice. The character of a legacy-hunter, for 
instance, is detestable in some countries, and 
despicable in all ; this universal contempt of a 
man who infringes upon none of the laws of 
society, some moralists have arraigned as a popu- 
lar and unjust prejudice: never considering the 
necessary degradations a wretch must undergo, 
who previously expects to grow rich by benefits, 
without having either natural or social claims to 
enforce his petitions. 

But this intercourse of benefaction and acknow- 
ledgment is often injurious even to the giver as 
well as the receiver; a man can gain but little 
knowledge of himself, or of the world, amidst a 
circle of those whom hope or gratitude has gathered 
round him; their unceasing humiliations must 
necessarily increase his comparative magnitude, 
tor all men measure their own abilities by those 
of their company : thus, being taught to over-rate 
his merit, he in reality lessens it ; increasing in 
confidence, but not in power, his professions end 
in empty boast, his undertakings in shameful dis- 
appointment. 

It is perhaps one of the severest misfortunes of 
the great, that they are, in general, obliged to live 
among men whose real value is lessened by de- 
pendence, and whose minds are enslaved by obli- 
gation. The humble companion may have at first 
accepted patronage with generous views, but soon 
he feels the mortifying influence of conscious in- 
feriority, by degrees sinks into a flatterer, and 
from flattery, at last degenerates into stupid vene- 
ration. To remedy this, the great often dismiss 
their old dependents, and take new. Such changes 
are falsely imputed to levity, falsehood, or caprice, 
in the patron, since they may be more justly 
ascribed to the client's gradual deterioration. 

No, my son, a life of independence is generally 
a life of virtue. It is that which fits the soul for 
every generous flight of humanity, freedom, and 
friendship. To give should be our pleasure, but 
to receive our shame ; serenity, health, and afflu- 
ence, attend the desire of rising by labour ; misery, 
repentance, and disrespect, that of succeeding by 
extorted benevolence; the man who can thank 
himself alone for the happiness he enjoys, is truly 
blest ; and lovely, far more lovely the sturdy gloom 
of laborious indigence, than the fawning simper 
of thriving adulation. Adieu. 



LETTER CI. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. a 

In every society, some men are born to teach, and 
others to receive instruction ; some to work, and 
others to enjoy in idleness the fruits of their in- 
dustry; some to govern, and others to obey. 
Every people, how free soever, must be contented to 
give up part of their liberty and judgment to those 
who govern, in exchange for the hopes of security; 
and the motives which first influenced their choice 
in the election of their governors, should ever be 
weighed against the succeeding apparent incon- 
sistency of their conduct. All cannot be rulers,, 
and men are generally best governed by a few. 
In making way through the intricacies of busi- 
ness, the smallest obstacles are apt to retard the 
execution of what is to be planned by a multi- 
plicity of counsels ; the judgment of one alone being 
always fittest for winding through the labyrinths 
of intrigue, and the obstructions of disappoint- 
ment. A serpent, which, as the fable observes, 
is furnished with one head and many tails, is 
much more capable of subsistence and expedition, 
than another which is furnished with but one tail 
and many heads. 

Obvious as these truths are, the people of this 
country seem insensible of their force. Not satis- 
fied with the advantages of internal peace and 
opulence, they still murmur at their governors, 
and interfere in the execution of their designs ; as 
if they wanted to be something more than happy. 
But as the Europeans instruct by argument, and 
the Asiatics mostly by narration, were I to ad- 
dress them, I should convey my sentiments in 
the following story. 

Takupi had long been prime minister of Tipar- 
tala, a fertile country that stretches along the 
western confines of China. During his adminis- 
tration, whatever advantages could be derived 
from arts, learning, and commerce, were seen to 
bless the people ; nor were the necessary precau- 
tions of providing for the security of the state 
forgotten. It often happens, however, that when 
men are possessed of all they want, they then 
begin to find torment from imaginary afflictions, 
and lessen their present enjoyment, by forboding 
that those enjoyments are to have an end. The 
people now, therefore, endeavoured to find out 
grievances ; and after some search actually began 
to think themselves aggrieved. A petition against 
the enormities of Takupi was carried to the 
throne in due form; and the queen, who go- 
verned the country, willing to satisfy her sub- 
jects, appointed a day in which his accusers 
should be heard, and the minister should stand 
upon his defence. 

The day being arrived, and the minister brought 
before the tribunal, a carrier, who supplied the 
city with fish, appeared among the number of his 
accusers. He exclaimed, that it was the custom,, 
time immemorial, for carriers to bring their fish 
upon a horse in a hamper ; which being placed on 
one side, and balanced by a stone on the other, 
was thus conveyed with ease and safety; but that 
the prisoner, moved either by a spirit of innova- 
tion, or perhaps bribed by the hamper-makers, 
had obliged all carriers to use the stone no longer, 
but balance one hamper with another ; an order 
entirely repugnant to the customs of all antiquity,. 



108 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



and those of the kingdom of Tipartala in parti- 
cular. 

The carrier finished, and the whole court shook 
their heads at the innovating minister ; when a 
second witness appeared. He was inspector of 
the city buildings, and accused the disgraced fa- 
vourite of having given orders for the demolition 
of an ancient ruin, which obstructed the passage 
through one of the principal streets. He observed 
that such buildings were noble monuments of bar- 
barous antiquity : contributed finely to show how 
little their ancestors understood of architecture, 
and for that reason such monuments should be 
held sacred, and suffered gradually to decay. 

The last witness now appeared. This was a 
widow who had laudably attempted to burn her- 
self upon her husband's funeral pile. But the in- 
novating minister had prevented the execution of 
her design, and was insensible to her tears, pro- 
testations, and entreaties. 

The queen could have pardoned the two former 
offences, but this last was considered as so gross 
an injury to the sex, and so directly contrary to 
all the customs of antiquity, that it called for im- 
mediate justice. 'What,' cried the queen, 'not 
suffer a woman to burn herself when she thinks 
proper ! The sex are to be very prettily tutored, 
no doubt, iftheymustbe restrained from enter- 
taining their female friends now and then with a 
fried wife, or roasted acquaintance. I sentence 
the criminal to be banished my presence for ever, 
for his injurious treatment of the sex.' 

Takupihad been hitherto silent, and spoke only 
to show the sincerity of his resignation. ' Great 
queen,' cried he, ' I acknowledge my crime ; and 
since I am to be banished, I beg it may be to 
some ruined town, or ruined village in the coun- 
try I have governed. I shall find some pleasure 
in improving the soil, and bringing back a spirit 
of industry among the inhabitants.' His request 
appearing reasonable, it was immediately com- 
plied with, and a courtier had orrlers to fix upon a 
place of banishment answering the minister's de- 
scription. After some months' search, however, 
the inquiry proved fruitless ; neither a desolate 
village, nor a ruined town, was found in the 
whole kingdom. ' Alas !' said Takupi to the 
queen, ' how can that country be ill governed, 
which has neither a desolate village nor a ruined 
town in it?' The queen perceived the justice of 
his expostulation, and the minister was received 
into more than former favour. 



LETTER CII. 

From the same. 

The ladies here are by no means such ardent 
gamesters as the women of Asia. In this respect 
I must do the English justice ; for I love to praise 
where applause is justly merited. Nothing more 
common in China than to see two women of 
fashion continue gaming till one has won all the 
other's clothes, and stripped her quite naked ; the 
winner marching off in a double suit of finery, and 
the loser shrinking behind in the primitive sim- 
plicity of nature. 

No doubt, you remember when Shang, our 
maiden aunt, played with a sharper. First her 
money went; then her trinkets were produced; 



her clothes followed, piece by piece, soon after ; 
when she had thus played herself quite naked, 
being a woman of spirit and willing to pursue her 
own, she staked her teeth ; fortune was against 
her even here ; and her teeth followed her 
clothes ; at last she played for her left eye, and 
oh ! hard fate, this too she lost ; however, she 
had the consolation of biting the sharper, for he 
never perceived that it was made of glass till it 
became his own. 

How happy, my friend, are the English ladies, 
who never rise to such an inordinance of passion ! 
Though the sex here are naturally fond of games 
of chance, and are taught to manage games of 
skill from their infancy, yet they never pursue 
ill fortune with such amazing intrepidity. In- 
deed I may entirely acquit them of ever playing 
— I mean of playing for their eyes or their teeth. 

It is true, they often stake their fortune, their 
beauty, health, and reputations, at a gaming 
table. It even sometimes happens, that they 
play their husbands into a jail; yet still they pre- 
serve a decorum unknown to our wives and 
daughters in China. I have been present at a 
rout in this country, where a woman of fashion, 
after losing her money, has sat writhing in all the 
agonies of bad luck; and yet, after all, never 
once attempted to strip a single petticoat, or cover 
the board as her last stake, with her head clothes. 

However, though I praise their moderation at 
play, I must not conceal their assiduity. In 
China, our women, except upon some great days, 
are never permitted to finger a dice-box ; but 
here every day seems to be a festival ; and night 
itself, which gives others rest, only serves to in- 
crease the female gamester's industry. I have 
been told of an old lady in the country, who, 
being given over by the physicians, played with 
the curate of her parish to pass her time away : 
having won all his money, she next proposed to 
play for her funeral charges; her proposal was 
accepted; but unfortunately the lady expired just 
as she had taken in her game. 

There are some passions, which, though dif- 
ferently pursued, are attended with equal conse- 
qnences in every country ; here they game with 
more perseverence, there with greater fury; here 
they strip their families, there they strip them- 
selves naked. A lady in China, who indulges a 
passion for gaming, often becomes a drunkard ; 
and by flourishing a dice-box in one hand, she 
generally comes to brandish a dram cup in the 
other. Far be it from me to say there are any 
who drink drams in England ; but it is natural to 
suppose, that when a lady has lost every thing 
else but her honour, she will be apt to lose that 
into the bargain ; and grown insensible to nicer 
feelings, behave like the Spaniard, who, when 
all his money was gone, endeavoured to borrow 
more, by offering to pawn his whiskers. Adieu. 



LETTER CIII. 

From Lien Chi Altangi, to * * *, Merchant in Amsterdam. 

I have just received a letter from my son, in 
which he informs me of the fruitlessness of his 
endeavours to recover the lady with whom he fled 
from Persia. He strives to cover, under the ap- 
pearance of fortitude, a heart torn with anxiety 
and disappointment. I have offered little conso- 



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109 



lation; since that but too frequently feeds the 
sorrow which it pretends to deplore, and strength- 
ens the impression which nothing but the exter- 
nal rubs of time and accident can thoroughly 
efface. 

He informs me of his intentions of quitting 
Moscow the first opportunity, and travelling by 
land to Amsterdam. I must, therefore, upon 
his arrival, entreat the continuance of your friend- 
ship; and beg of you to provide him with proper 
directions for finding me in London. You can 
scarcely be sensible of the joy I expect upon see- 
ing him once more : the ties between the father 
and the son, among us of China, are much more 
closely drawn than with you of Europe. 

The remittances sent me from Argun to Mos- 
cow, came in safety. I cannot sufficiently admire 
that spirit of honesty which prevails through the 
whole country of Siberia : perhaps the savages of 
that desolate region are the only untutored peo- 
ple of the globe that cultivate the moral virtues, 
even without knowing that their actions merit 
praise. I have been told surprising things of 
their goodness, benevolence, and generosity; and 
the uninterrupted commerce between China and 
Russia serves as a collateral confirmation. 

' Let us,' says the Chinese lawgiver, ' admire 
the rude virtues of the ignorant, but rather imi- 
tate the delicate morals of the polite.' In the 
country where I reside, though honesty and bene- 
volence be not so congenial, yet art supplies the 
place of nature. Though here every vice is car- 
ried to excess, yet every virtue is practised also 
with unexampled superiority. A city like this is 
the soil for great virtues and great vices ; the vil- 
lain can soon improve here in the deepest myste- 
ries of deceiving ; and the practical philosopher 
can every day meet new incitements to mend his 
honest intentions. There are no pleasures, sen- 
sual or sentimental, which this city does not pro- 
duce ; yet I know not how, I could not be con- 
tent to reside here for life. There is something 
so seducing in that spot in which we first had ex- 
istence, that nothing but it can please : what- 
ever vicissitudes we experience in life, however 
we toil, or wheresoever we wander, our fatigued 
wishes still recur to home for tranquillity, we 
long to die in that spot which gave us birth, and 
in that pleasing expectation opiate every calamity. 

You now, therefore, perceive that I have some 
intentions of leaving this country; and yet my 
designed departure fills me with reluctance and 
regret. Though the friendships of travellers are 
generally more transient than vernal snows, still 
I feel an uneasiness at breaking the connexions I 
have formed since my arrival; particularly I shall 
have no small pain in leaving my usual com- 
panion, guide, and instructor. 

I shall wait for the arrival of my son before 1 
set out. He shall be my companion in every 
intended journey for the future ; in his company, 
I can support the fatigues of the way with re- 
doubled ardour, pleased at once with conveying 
instruction, and exacting obedience. Adieu. 



LETTER CIV. 

From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

Oor scholars of China have a most profound 
veneration for forms. A first rate beauty never 



studied the decorums of dress with more assiduity. 
They may properly enough be said to be clothed 
with wisdom from head to foot; they have their 
philosophical caps and philosophical whiskers, 
their philosophical slippers, and philosophical 
fans ; there is even a philosophical standard for 
measuring the nails ; and yet, with all this seem- 
ing wisdom, they are often found to be mere 
empty pretenders. 

A philosophical beau is not so frequent in 
Europe; yet I am told that such characters are 
found here. I mean such as punctually support 
all the decorums of learning without being really 
very profound, or naturally possessed of a fine 
understanding, who labour hard to obtain the 
titular honours attending literary merit, who 
flatter others, in order to be flattered in turn, 
and only study to be thought students. 

A character of this kind generally receives com- 
pany in his study, in all the pensive formality of 
slippers, night-gown, and easy-chair. The table 
is covered with a large book, which is always kept 
open, and never read; his solitary hours being- 
dedicated to dozing, mending pens, feeling his 
pulse, peeping through the microscope, and some- 
times reading amusing books which he condemns 
in company. His library is preserved with the 
most religious neatness; and is generally a re- 
pository of scarce books, which bear a high price, 
because too dull or useless to become common by 
the ordinary methods of publication. 

Such men are generally candidates for admit- 
tance into literary clubs, academies, and institu- 
tions, where they regularly meet to give and 
receive a little instruction and a great deal of 
praise. In conversation they never betray ig- 
norance, because they never seem to receive 
information. Offer a new observation, they have 
heard it before ; pinch them in an argument, and 
they reply with a sneer. 

Yet, how trifling soever these little arts may 
appear, they answer one valuable purpose, — of 
gaining the practisers the esteem they wish for. 
The bounds of a man's knowledge are easily con- 
cealed, if he has but prudence ; but all can readily 
see and admire a gilt library, a set of long nails, a 
silver standish, or a well-combed whisker, who 
are incapable of distinguishing a dunce. 

When father Matthew, the first European mis- 
sionary, entered China, the court was informed 
that he possessed great skill in astronomy; he 
was therefore sent for and examined. The es- 
tablished astronomers of state undertook this 
task ; and made their report to the emperor, that 
his skill was but very superficial and no way com- 
parable to their own. The missionary, however, 
appealed from their judgment to experience, and 
challenged them to calculate an eclipse of the 
moon that was to happen a few nights following. 
'What,' said some, 'shall a barbarian, without 
nails, pretend to vie with men in astronomy, who 
have made it the study of their lives ; with men 
who know half the knowable characters of words, 
who wear scientifical caps and slippers, and who 
have gone through every literary degree with ap- 
plause ?' They accepted the challenge, confident 
of success. The eclipse began : the Chinese pro- 
duced a most splendid apparatus, and were fifteen 
minutes wrong; the missionary, with a single in- 
strument, was exact to a second. This was con- 
vincing; but the court astronomers were not to 
be convinced ; instead of acknowledging their 



110 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



«rror, they assured the emperor that their calcu- 
lations were certainly exact, but that the stranger 
without nails had actually bewitched the moon. 
' Well, then,' cries the good emperor, smiling at 
their ignorance, ' you shall still continue to be 
servants of the moon ; but I constitute this man 
her controller.' 

China is thus replete with men, whose only pre 
tensions to knowledge arise from external cir- 
cumstances ; and in Europe every country abounds 
with them in proportion to its ignorance. Spain 
and Flanders, who are behind the rest of Europe 
in learning, at least three centuries, have twenty 
literary titles and marks of distinction unknown 
in France or England : they have their clarissimi 
and preclarissimi, their accuratissimi and minu- 
tissimi; a round cap entitles one student to argue, 
and a square cap permits another to teach ; while 
a cap with a tassel almost sanctifies the head it 
happens to bover. But where true knowledge is 
cultivated, these formalities begin to disappear; 
the ermined cowl, the solemn beard, and sweep- 
ing train, are laid aside ; philosophers dress, and 
talk, and think, like other men; and lamb-skin 
dressers, and cap-makers, and tail-carriers, now 
deplore a literary age. 

For my own part, my friend, I have seen 
enough of presuming ignorance, never to venerate 
wisdom but where it actually appears. I have 
received literary titles and distinctions myself; 
and, by the quantity of my own wisdom, know 
how very little wisdom they can confer. Adieu. 



LETTEE CV. 

From the same. 

The time for the young king's coronation ap- 
proaches; the great and the little world look 
forward with impatience. A knight from the 
country, who has brought up his family to see 
and be seen on this occasion, has taken all the 
lower part of the house where I lodge. His wife 
is laying in a large quantity of silks, which the 
mercer tells her are to be fashionable next season ; 
and Miss, her daughter, has actually had her ears 
bored previous to the ceremony. In all this 
bustle of preparation I am considered as mere 
lumber, and have been shoved up two stories 
higher to make room for others my landlady 
seems perfectly convinced are my betters ; but 
whom, before me, she is contented with only 
■calling very good company. 

The little beau, who has now forced himself 
into my intimacy, was yesterday giving me a 
most minute , detail of the intended procession. 
All men are eloquent upon their favourite topic; 
and this seemed peculiarly adapted to the size 
and turn of his understanding. His whole mind 
was blazoned over with a variety of glittering 
images ; coronets, escutcheons, lace, fringe, tas- 
sels, stones, bugles, and spun glass. ' Here,' 
cried he, 'Garter is to walk; and there Rouge 
Dragon marches with the escutcheons on his 
back. Here Clarencieux moves forward; and 
there Blue Mantle disdains to be left behind. 
Here the aldermen march two and two; and 



tnere the undaunted champion of England, no 
way terrified at the very numerous appearance of 
gentlemen and ladies, rides forward in complete 
armour, and with an intrepid air throws down his 
glove. Ah,' continues he, 'should any be so 
hardy as to take up that fatal glove, and so accept 
the challenge, we should see fine sport; the 
champion would show him no mercy; he would 
soon teach him all his passes, with a witness. 
However, I am afraid we shall have none willing 
to try it with him upon the approaching occasion, 
for two reasons ; first, because his antagonist 
would stand a chance of being killed in the single 
combat ; and secondly, because if he escapes the 
champion's arm, he would certainly be hanged for 
treason. No, no, I fancy none will be so hardy 
as to dispute it with a champion like him inured 
to arms ; and we shall probably see him prancing 
unmolested away, holding his bridle thus in one 
hand, and brandishing his dram cup in the other.' 

Some men have a manner of describing which 
only warps the subject in more than former ob- 
scurity: thus I was unable, with all my com- 
panion's volubility, to/orm a distinct idea of the 
intended procession. I was certain that the in- 
auguration of a king should be conducted with 
solemnity and religious awe; and I could not be 
persuaded that there was much solemnity in this 
description. ' If this be true,' cried I to myself, 
'the people of Europe surely have a strange 
manner of mixing solemn and fantastic images 
together ; pictures at once replete with burlesque 
and sublime. At a time when the king enters 
into the most solemn compact with his people, 
nothing surely should be admitted to diminish 
from the real majesty of the ceremony. A 
ludicrous image brought in at such a time throws 
an air of ridicule upon the whole. It some way 
resembles a picture I have seen, designed by 
Albert Durer, where, amidst all the solemnity of 
that awful scene, a deity judging, and a trembling 
world awaiting the decree, he has introduced a 
merry mortal trundling his scolding wife to hell 
in a wheel-barrow.' 

My companion, who mistook my silence during 
this interval of reflection for the rapture of as- 
tonishment, proceeded to describe those frivolous 
parts of the show that mostly struck his imagi- 
nation ; and to assure me, that if I stayed in this 
country some months longer I should see fine 
things. ' For my own part,' continued he, ' I 
know already of fifteen suits of clothes, that would 
stand on one end with gold lace, all designed to 
be first shown there ; and as for diamonds, rubies, 
emeralds, and pearls, we shall see them as thick 
as brass nails in a sedan chair. And then we are 
all to walk so majestically thus; this foot always 
behind the foot before. The ladies are to fling 
nosegays; the court poets to scatter verses; the 
spectators are to be all in full dress ; Mrs. Tibbs 
in a new sacque, ruffles, and frenched hair ; look 
where you will, one thing finer than another; 
Mrs. Tibbs curtesies to the duchess; her grace 
returns the compliment with a bow. 'Largess,' 
cries the herald. ' Make room,' cries the gentle- 
man usher. ' Knock him down,' cries the guard. 
' Ah !' continued he, amazed at his own descrip- 
tion, ' what an astonishing scene of grandeur can 
art produce from the smallest circumstances 
when it thus actually turns to wonder one man 
putting on another man's hat.' 

I now found his mind was entirely set upor 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



Ill 



the fopperies or the pageant, and quite regardless 
of the real meaning of such costly preparations. 
' Pageants,' says Bacon, ' are pretty things ; hut 
we should rather study to make them elegant 
than expensive;' processions, cavalcades, and all 
that fund of gay frippery furnished out by tailors, 
harbers, and tire-women, mechanically influence 
the mind into veneration : an emperor, in his 
night-cap, would meet with half the respect of an 
emperor with a glittering crown. Politics re- 
semble religion ; attempting to divest either of 
ceremony, is the most certain method of bringing 
either into contempt. The weak must have their 
inducements to admiration as well as the wise; 
and it is the business of a sensible government to 
impress all ranks with a sense of subordination, 
■whether this be effected by a diamond buckle or 
a virtuous edict, a sumptuary law, or a glass 
necklace. 

This interval of reflection only gave my com- 
panion spirits to begin his description afresh; and 
as a greater inducement to raise my curiosity, he 
informed me of the vast sums that were given by 
the spectators for places. 'That the ceremony 
must be fine,' cries he, ' is very evident from the 
fine price that is paid for seeing it. Several 
ladies have assured me, they could willingly part 
•with one eye, rather than be prevented from look- 
ing on with the other. Come, come,' continues 
he, ' I have a friend, who, for my sake, will 
supply us with places at the most reasonable 
rates ; I'll take care you shall not be imposed 
upon ; and he will inform you of the use, finery, 
rapture, splendour, and enchantment, of the 
whole ceremony, better than I.' 

Follies often repeated lose their absurdity, and 
assume the appearance of reason : his arguments 
were so often, and so strongly enforced, that I 
had actually some thoughts of becoming a spec- 
tator. We accordingly went together to bespeak 
a place; but guess my surprise, when the man 
demanded a purse of gold for a single seat! I 
could hardly believe him serious upon making 
the demand. ' Prithee, friend,' cried I, ' after I 
have paid twenty pounds for sitting here an hour 
or two, can I bring a part of the coronation back V 
— • No, sir.' — ' How long can I live upon it after I 
am come away?' — 'Not long, sir.' — 'Can a coro- 
nation clothe, feed, or fatten me?' — ' Sir,' replied 
the man, ' you seem to be under a mistake ; all 
that you can bring away is the pleasure of having 
it to say that you saw the coronation.' — ' Blast 
me !' cries Tibbs, ' if that be all, there is no need 
of paying for that, since I am resolved to have 
that pleasure whether I am there or no !' 

I am conscious, my friend, that this is but a 
very confused description of the intended cere- 
mony. You may object, that I neither settle 
rank, precedency, nor place ; that I seem ignorant 
whether Gules walks before or behind Garter; 
that I have neither mentioned the dimensions of 
a lord's cap, nor measured the length of a lady's 
tail. I know your delight is in minute descrip- 
tion ; and this I am unhappily disqualified from 
furnishing ; yet, upon the whole, I fancy it will 
be no way comparable to the magnificence of our 
late emperor Whangti's procession when he was 
married to the moon, at which Fum Hoam him- 
self presided in person. Adieu. 



LETTER CVI. 



To the : 



It was formerly the custom here, when men of 
distinction died, for their surviving acquaintance 
to throw each a slight present into the grave. 
Several things of little value were made use of 
for that purpose; perfumes, relics, spices, bitter 
herbs, camomile, wormwood, and verses. This 
custom, however, is almost discontinued ; and 
nothing but verses alone are now lavished on 
such occasions ; an oblation which they suppose 
may be interred with the dead without any injury 
to the living. 

Upon the death of the great, therefore, the 
poets and undertakers are sure of employment. 
While one provides the long cloak, black staff, 
and mourning coach, the other produces the pas- 
toral or elegy, the monody or apotheosis. The 
nobility need be under no apprehensions, but die 
as fast as they think proper : the poet and under- 
taker are ready to supply them; these can find 
metaphorical tears and family escutcheons at half 
an hour's warning ; and when the one has soberly 
laid the body in the grave, the other is ready to 
fix it figuratively among the stars. 

There are several ways of being poetically sor- 
rowful on such occasions. The bard is now some 
pensive youth of science, who sits deploring 
among the tombs ; again he is Thyrsis, complain- 
ing in a circle of harmless sheep. Now Britannia 
sits upon her own shore, and gives a loose to ma- 
ternal tenderness; at another time, Parnassus, 
even the mountain Parnassus, gives way to sorrow, 
and is bathed in tears of distress. 

But the most usual manner is this : Damon 
meets Menalcas, who has got a most gloomy 
countenance. The shepherd asks his friend 
whence that look of distress ? to which the other 
replies, that Pollio is no more. ' If that be the 
case then,' cries Damon, 'let us retire to yonder 
bower at some distance off, where the cypress and 
the jessamine add fragrance to the breeze; and 
let us weep alternately for Pollio, the friend of 
shepherds, and the patron of every muse.' — 'Ah,' 
returns his fellow shepherd, 'what think you 
rather of that grotto by the fountain side! the 
murmuring stream will help to assist our com- 
plaints; and a nightingale, on a neighbouring 
tree, will join her voice to the concert !' When 
the place is thus settled, they begin : the brook 
stands still to hear their lamentations ; the cows 
forget to graze ; and the very tigers start from 
the forest with a sympathetic concern. By the 
tombs of our ancestors, my dear Fum, I am quite 
unaffected in all this distress : the whole is liquid 
laudanum to my spirits ; and a tiger of common 
sensibility has twenty times more tenderness 
than I. 

But though I could never weep with the com- 
plaining shepherd, yet I am sometimes induced 
to pity the poet, whose trade is thus to make 
demigods and heroes for a dinner. There is not 
in nature a more dismal figure than a man who 
sits down to premeditate flattery; every stanza 
he writes tacitly reproaches the meanness of his 
occupation, till at last his stupidity becomes more 
stupid, and his dulness more diminutive. 

I am amazed therefore that none have yet 



112 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



found out the secret of flattering the worthless, 
and yet of preserving a safe conscience. I have 
often wished for some method by which a man 
might do himself and his deceased patron justice, 
without being under the hateful reproach of self- 
conviction. After long lucubration, I have hit 
upon such an expedient, and send you the spe- 
cimen of a poem upon the decease of a great man, 
in which the flattery is perfectly fine, and yet the 
poet perfectly innocent. 

ON THE 
DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE * * * *. 

Ye muses, pour the pitying tear 
For Pollio snatch'd away : 
O had he lived another year! 
—He had not died to-day. 

O, were he born to bless mankind, 
In virtuous times of yore, 
Heroes themselves had fallen behind! 
— Whene'er he went before. 

How sad the groves and plains appear, 
And sympathetic sheep; 
Even pitying hills would drop a teart 
—If hills could learn to weep. 

His bounty in exalted strain 
Each bard might well display; 
Since none implored relief in vain ! 
— That went relieved away. 

And hark! I hear the tuneful throng ; 
His obsequies forbid ! 
He stiK shall live, shall live at lonp 
— As ever dead man dtd. 




all— that tlie dog 



LETTER CVIL 



It is the most usual method, in every report, 
first to examine its probability, and then act as 
the conjuncture may require. The English, how- 
ever, exert a different spirit in such circum- 
stances ; they first act, and when too late, begin to 
examine. From a knowledge of this disposition, 
there are several here who make it their business 
to frame new reports at every convenient inter- 
val, all tending to denounce ruin both on their 
contemporaries and their posterity. This denun- 
ciation is eagerly caught up by the public ; away 
they fling to propagate the distress; sell out at 
one plate, buy in at another, grumble at their 



governors, shout in mobs ; and when they have 
thus, for some time, behaved like fools, sit down 
coolly to argue and talk wisdom, to puzzle each 
other with syllogism, and prepare for the next 
report that prevails, which is always attended 
with the same success. 

Thus are they ever rising above one report only 
to sink into another. They resemble a dog in a 
well, pawing to get free. When he has raised 
his upper parts above water, and every spectator 
imagines him disengaged, his lower parts drag 
him down again, and sink him to the nose ; he 
makes new efforts to emerge, and every effort in- 
creasing his weakness, only tends to sink him 
the deeper. 

There are some here, who, I am told, make a 
tolerable subsistence by the credulity of their 
countrymen: as they find the public fond of 
blood, wounds, and death, r they contrive politi- 
cal ruins suited to every month in the year ; this 
month the people are to be eaten up by the 
French in flat-bottomed boats ; the next by the 
soldiers, designed to beat the French back ; now 
the people are going to jump down the gulf of 
luxury; and now nothing but a herring subscrip- 
tion can fish them up again. Time passes on ; 
the report proves false ; new circumstances pro- 
duce new changes : but the people never change, 
thej^ are persevering in folly. 

In other countries those boding politicians 
would be left to fret over their own schemes 
alone, and grow splenetic without hopes of infect- 
ing others : but England seems to be the very 
region where spleen delights to dwell ; a man not 
only can give an unbounded scope to the disorder 
in himself, but may, if he pleases, propagate it 
over the whole kingdom, with a certainty of suc- 
cess. He has only to cry out, that the govern- 
ment, the government is all wrong ; that their 
schemes are leading to ruin ; that Britons are no 
more. Every good member of the common- 
wealth thinks it his duty, in such a case, to de- 
plore the universal decadence with sympathetic 
sorrow, and, by fancying the constitution in a 
decay, absolutely to impair its vigour. 

This people would laugh at my simplicity, 
should I advise them to be less sanguine in har- 
bouring gloomy predictions, and examine coolly 
before they attempted to complain. I have just 
heard a story, which, though transacted in a pri- 
vate family, serves very well to describe the beha- 
viour of the whole nation, in cases of threatened 
calamity. As there are public, so there are pri- 
vate incendiaries. One of the last, either for the 
amusement of his friends, or to divert a fit of the 
spleen, lately sent a threatening letter to a worthy 
family in my neighbourhood, to this effect. 

' Sir, knowing you to be very rich, and finding 
myself to be very poor, I think proper to inform 
you, that I have learnt the secret of poisoning 
man, woman, and child, without danger of detec 
tion. Don't be uneasy, sir, you may take youi 
choice of being poisoned in a fortnight, or poisoned 
in a month, or poisoned in six weeks ; you shall 
have full time to settle all your affairs. Though 
I'm poor, I love to do things like a gentleman 
But, sir, you must die; I have determined it 
within my own breast that you must die. Blood, 
sir, blood is my trade ; so I could wish you would 
this day six week take leave of your friends, wife, 
and family, for I cannot possibly allow you longer 
time* To convince you more certainly of the 



THE CITIZEN < F THE WORLD. 



11 J 



power of my art, by which you may know I speak 
truth, take this letter, when you have read it, 
tear off the seal, fold it up, and give it to your 
favourite Dutch mastiff that sits by the fire ; he 
will swallow it, sir, lik a buttered toast. In three 
hours four minutes after he has taken it, he will 
attempt to bite off his own tongue, and half a a 
hour after burst asunder in twenty pieces. Blood, 
blood, blood! so no more at present from, sir, 
your most obedient, most devoted humble servant 
to command, till death.' 

You may easily imagine the consternation into 
which this letter threw the whole good-natured 
family. The poor man, to whom it was addressed, 
was the more surprized, as not knowing how he 
could merit such inveterate malice. All the 
friends of the family were convened ; it was uni- 
versally agreed, that it was a most terrible affair, 
and that the government should be solicited to 
offer a reward and a pardon ; a fellow of this kind 
would go on poisoning family after family, and it 
was impossible to say where the destruction 
would end. In pursuance of these determinations 
the government was applied to ; strict search was 
made after the incendiary, but all in vain. At 
last, therefore, they recollected that the experi- 
ment was not yet tried upon the dog ; the Dutch 
mastiff was brought up, and placed in the midst 
of pie friends and relations, the seal was torn off, 
the packet folded up with care, and soon they 
found, to the great surprise of all—that the dog 
would not eat the letter. Adieu. 



LETTER CVIII. 

' From the same. 

I have frequently been amazed at the ignorance 

of almost all the European travellers who have 

penetrated any considerable way eastward into 

Asia. They have been influenced either by mo- 

1 tives of commerce or piety; and their accounts 

; are such as might reasonably be expected from 

; men of very narrow or very prejudiced education, 

| the dictates of superstition, or the result of igno- 

i ranee. Is it not surprising, that, in such a variety 

I of adventurers, not one single philosopher should 

; be found; for as to the travels of Gemelli, the 

learned are long agreed, that the whole is but an 

; imposture. 

There is scarcely any country, how rude or un- 
i cultivated soever, where the inhabitants are not 
possessed of some peculiar secrets, either in na- 
ture or art, which might be transplanted with 
success ; in Siberian Tartary, for instance, the 
natives extract a strong spirit from milk, which is 
a secret probably unknown to the chemists of 
Europe. In the most savage parts of India, they 
are possessed of the secret of dying vegetable sub- 
stances scarlet ; and of refining lead into a metal, 
i which, for hardness and colour, is little inferior to 
silver; not one of which secrets but would in 
j j Europe make a man's fortune. The power of the 
Asiatics in producing winds, or bringing down 
| ' rains, the Europeans are apt to treat as fabulous, 
because they have no instances of the like nature 
j ; among themselves ; but they would have treated 
I the secrets of gunpowder and the mariner's com. 



pass in the same manner, had they been told the 
Chinese used such arts before the invention was 
common with themselves at home. 

Of all the English philosophers I most reverence 
Bacon, that great and hardy genius ; he it is who 
allows of secrets yet unknown ; who, undaunted 
by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts 
human curiosity to examine every part of nature, 
and even exhorts man to try whether he cannot 
subject the tempest, the thunder, and even earth- 
quakes, to human control. Oh, did a man of 
his daring spirit, of his genius, penetration, 
and learning, to travel to those countries which 
have been visited only by the superstitious and 
mercenary, what might not mankind expect: 
how would he enlighten the regions to which he 
travelled ! and what a variety of knowledge and 
useful improvement would he not bring back in 
exchange. 

There is probably no country so barbarous, that 
would not disclose all it knew, if it received from 
the traveller equivalent information; and I am 
apt to think, that a person who was ready to give 
more knowledge than he received, would be wel- 
come wherever he came. All his care in travelling 
should only be to suit his intellectual banquet 
to the people with whom he conversed ; he should 
not attempt to teach the unlettered Tartar astro- 
nomy, nor yet instruct the polite Chinese in the 
ruder arts of subsistence; he should endeavour to 
improve the barbarian in the secrets of living 
comfortably; and the inhabitant of a more refined 
country, in the speculative pleasures of science. 
How much more nobly would a philosopher thus 
employed spend his time, than by sitting at home 
earnestly intent upon adding one more star to his 
catalogue, or one monster more to his collection ; 
or still, if possible, more triflingly sedulous in the 
incatenation of fleas, or the sculpture of a cherry- 
stone. 

I never consider this subject without being sur- 
prised how none of those societies, so laudably 
established in England for the promotion of arts 
and learning, have never thought of sending one 
of their members into the most eastern parts of 
Asia, to make what discoveries he was able. To 
be convinced of the utility of such an undertaking, 
let them but read the relations of their own tra- 
vellers. It will be there found, that they are as 
often deceived themselves, as they attempt to 
deceive others. The merchant tells us, perhaps, 
the price of different commodities, the methods of 
baling them up, and the properest manner for a 
European to preserve his health in the country. 
The missionary, on the other hand, informs us, 
with what pleasure the country to which he was 
sent, embraced Christianity, and the numbers he 
converted ; what methods he took to keep Lent in 
a region where there was no fish ; or the shifts he 
made to celebrate the rites of his religion in places 
where there was neither bread nor wine; such 
accounts, with the usual appendage of marriages 
and funerals, inscriptions, rivers and mountains, 
make up the whole of a European traveller's 
diary; but as to all the secrets of which the inha- 
bitants are possessed, those are universally attri- 
buted to magic ; and when the traveller can give 
no other account of the wonders he sees perform- 
ed, he very contentedly ascribes them to the pow- 
er of the devil. 

It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English 
chemist, that if every artist would but discover 



114 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



what new observations occurred to him in the 
exercise of his trade, philosophy would thence 
gain innumerable improvements. It may be ob- 
served, with still greater justice, that if the useful 
knowledge of every country, howsoever barbarous, 
was gleaned by a judicious observer, the advan- 
tages would be inestimable. Are there not, even 
in Europe, many useful inventions known or 
practised but in one place ? The instrument, as an 
example, for cutting down corn in Germany, is 
much more handy and expeditious, in my opinion, 
than the sickle used in England. The cheap and 
expeditious manner |of making vinegar without 
previous fermentation, is known only in a part of 
France. If such discoveries, therefore, remain to 
be known at home, what funds of knowledge 
might not be collected in countries yet unexplored, 
or only passed through by ignorant travellers in 
hasty caravans. 

t The caution with which foreigners are received 
in Asia, may be alleged as an objection to such a 
design. But how readily have several European 
merchants found admission into [regions the most 
suspecting, under the character of Sanjapins, or 
northern pilgrims ; to such not even China itself 
denies access. 

To send out a traveller, properly qualified for 
these purposes, might be an object of national 
concern : it would in some measure repair the 
breach made by ambition ; and might show that 
there were still some who boasted a greater name 
than that of patriots, who professed themselves 
lovers of men. The only difficulty would remain 
in choosing a proper person for so arduous an 
enterprise. He should be a man of a philosophi- 
cal turn, one apt to deduce consequences of gene- 
ral utility from particular occurrences ; neither 
swollen with pride, nor hardened by prejudice; 
neither wedded to one particular system, nor in- 
structed only in one particular science ; neither 
wholly a botanist, nor quite an antiquarian : his 
mind should be tinctured with miscellaneous 
knowledge, and his manner humanized by an 
intercourse with men. He should be, in some 
measure, an enthusiast in the design; fond of 
travelling, from a rapid imagination, and an in- 
nate love of change ; furnished with a body capa- 
ble of sustaining every fatigue, and a heart not 
easily terrified at danger. Adieu. 



LETTER CIX. 

From the same. 

One of the principal tasks I had proposed to my- 
self on my arrival here, was to become acquainted 
with the names and characters of those now living, 
who, as scholars or wits, had acquired the greatest 
share of reputation. In order to succeed in this 
design, I fancied the surest method would be to 
begin my inquiry among the ignorant, judging 
that his fame would be greatest, which was loud 
enough to be heard by the vulgar. Thus predis- 
posed, I began to search, but only went in quest 
of disappointment and perplexity. I found every 
district had a peculiar famous man of its own. 
Here the story-telling shoemaker had engrossed 
the admiration on one side of the street, while the 
bellman, who excelled at a catch, was in quiet 
possession of the other. At one end of a lane the 
sexton was regarded as tne greatest man alive; 



but I had not travelled half its length, till I found 
an enthusiastic teacher had divided his reputation. 
My landlady perceiving my design, was kind 
enough to offer me her advice in this affair ; it was 
true, she observed, that she was no judge, but she 
knew what pleased herself, and if I would rest 
upon her judgment, I should set down Tom Col- 
lins as the most ingenious man in the world, for 
Tom was able to take off all mankind, and imitate, 
besides, a sow and pigs to perfection. 

I now perceived, that taking my standard of 
reputation among the vulgar would swell my ca- 
talogue of great names above the size of a court- 
calender ; I therefore discontinued this method of 
pursuit, and resolved to prosecute my inquiry 
into that usual residence of fame, a. bookseller's 
shop. In consequence of this, I entreated the 
bookseller to let me know who were they who 
now made the greatest figure, either in morals, 
wit, or learning. Without giving me a direct 
answer, he pulled a pamphlet from the shelf, 
The Young Attorney's Guide ; ' There, sir,' cries 
he, 'there's a touch for you, fifteen hundred of 
these moved off in a day; I take the author of 
this pamphlet, either for title, preface, plan, body, 
or index, to be the completest hand in England.' 
I found it was vain to prosecute my inquiry where 
my informer appeared so incompetent a judge of 
merit; so paying for the Young Attorney's Guide, 
which good manners obliged me to buy, I walked 
off. 

My pursuit after famous men" now brought me 
into a print-shop. Here, thought I, the painter 
only reflects the public voice. As every man 
who deserved it had formerly his statue placed up 
in the Roman forum, so here, probably, the pic- 
tures of none but such as merit a place in our 
affections are held up for public sale. But guess my 
surprise, when I came to examine this depositorj 
of noted faces? all distinctions were levelled here, as 
in the grave, and I could not but regard it as the 
catacomb of real merit. The brick-dust man 
took up as much room as the truncheoned hero, 
and the judge was elbowed by the thief-taker; 
quacks, pimps, and buffoons, increased the group, 
and noted stallions only made room for more 
noted whores. I had read the works of some of 
the moderns previous to my coming to England, 
with delight and approbation ; but I found their 
faces had no places here ; the walls were covered 
with the names of authors I had never known, or 
had endeavoured to forget; with the little self- 
advertising things of a day, who had forced them- 
selves into fashion, but not into fame. I could 
read at the bottom of some pictures the names 

of—, and , and , all equally candidates 

for the vulgar shout, and foremost to propagate 
their unblushing faces upon brass. My uneasiness, 
therefore, at not finding my few favourite names 
among the number, was now changed into con- 
gratulation. I could not avoid reflecting on the 
fine observation of Tacitus on a similar occasion. 
In this cavalcade of flattery, cries the historian, 
neither Brutus, Cassius, nor Cato, were to be 
seen ; eo clariores quia imagines eorum non defere- 
bantur; their absence being the strongest proof 
of their merit. 

' It is in vain,' cried I, ' to seek for true great- 
ness among these monuments of the unburied 
dead; let me go among the tombs of those who 
were confessedly famous, and see if any have been 
lately deposited there who deserve the attention 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



115 



of posterity, and whose names maybe transmitted 
to my distant friend, as an honour to the present 
age.' Determined in my pursuit, I paid a second 
visit to Westminster abbey. There I found seve- 
ral new monuments erected to the memory of 
several great men ; the names of the great men I 
I absolutely forget, but I well remember that Rou- 
billac was the statuary who carved them. I could 
not help smiling at two modern epitaphs in par- 
ticular, one of which praised the deceased for 
being ortus ex antiqua stirpe ; the other com- 
mended the dead, because hanc cedem suis sump- 
tibus reccdificavit ; the greatest merit of one con- 
sisted in his being descended from an illustrious 
house; the chief distinction of the other, that he 
had propped up an old house that was falling. 
1 Alas ! alas !' cried I, ' such monuments as these 
confer honour, not upon the great men, but upon 
little Roubillac' 

Hitherto disappointed in my inquiry after the 
great of the present age, I was resolved to mix in 
company, and try what I could learn among 
critics in coffee-houses; and here it was that I 
heard my favourite names talked of even with 
inverted fame. A gentieman of exalted merit, as 
a writer, was branded in general terms as a bad 
man; another, of exquisite delicacy as a poet, 
reproached for wanting good nature ; a third was 
accused of free-thinking; and a fourth of having 
once been a player. ' Strange,' cried I, ' how 
unjust are mankind in the distribution of fame; 
the ignorant, among whom I sought at first, were 
willing to grant, but incapable of distinguishing 
the virtues of those who deserved it; among 
those I now converse with, they know the proper 
objects of admiration, but mix envy with applause.* 
Disappointed so often, I was now resolved to 
examine those characters in person of whom the 
world talked so freely. By conversing with men 
of real merit, I began to find out those characters 
which really deserved, though they strove to avoid 
applause. I found the vulgar admiration entirely 
misplaced, and malevolence without its sting - . 
The truly great, possessed of numerous small 
faults, and shining virtues, preserve a sublime in 
morals as in writing. They who have attained 
an excellence in either, commit numberless trans- 
gressions, observable to the meanest understand- 
ing. The ignorant critic and dull remarker can 
readily spy blemishes in eloquence or morals, 
whose sentiments are not sufficiently elevated to 
observe a beauty; but such are judges neither of 
books nor of life ; they can diminish no solid 
reputation by their censure, nor bestow a lasting 
character by their applause. In short, I found 
by my search, that such only can confer real 
fame upon others, who have merit themselves 
%o deserve it. Adieu. 



LETTER CX. 

From the same. 

There are numberless employments in the 
courts of the eastern monarchs, utterly unprac- 
tised and unknown in Europe. They have no 
such officers, for instance, as the emperor's ear- 
tickler, or tooth-picker; they have never i intro- 
duced at the courts the mandarine appointed to 
bear the royal tobacco-box, or the grave director 
of the imperial exercitations in the seraglio. Yet 



I am surprised that tne Engnsn nave imitated Uh 
in none of these particulars, as they are generally 
pleased with every thing that comes from China, 
and excessively fond of creating new and useless 
employments. They have filled their houses with 
our furniture, their public gardens with our fire- 
works, and their very ponds with our fish ; our 
courtiers, my friend, are the fish and the furni- 
ture they should have imported; our courtiers 
would fill up the necessary ceremonies of a court 
better than those of Europe, would be contented 
with receiving large salaries for doing little, 
whereas some of this country are at present dis- 
contented though they receive large salaries for 
doing nothing. 

I lately, therefore, had thoughts of publishing 
a proposal here, for the admission of some new- 
eastern offices and titles into their court-register. 
As I consider myself in the light of a cosmopo- 
lite, I find as much satisfaction in scheming for 
the countries in which I happen to reside, as for 
that in which I was born. 

The finest apartments in the palace of Pegu are 
frequently infested with rats. These the religion 
of the country strictly forbid the people to kill. 
In such circumstances, therefore, they are 
obliged to have recourse to some great man of 
the court, who is willing to free the royal apart- 
ments, even at the hazard of his salvation. After 
a weak monarch's reign, the quantity of court 
vermin in every corner of the palace is sur- 
prising; but a prudent king, and a vigilant 
officer, soon drives them from their sanctuaries 
behind the mats and the tapestry, and effectually 
frees the court. Such an officer in England, 
would, in my opinion, be serviceable at this 
juncture; for if, as I am told, the palace be ciaj 
much vermin must undoubtedly have taken re- 
fuge behind the wainscot and hangings. A 
minister should, therefore, be invested with the 
title and dignities of court-vermin-killer ; he 
should have full power either to banish, take, 
poison, or destroy them with enchantments, 
traps, ferrets, or ratsbane. He might be permit- 
ted to brandish his besom without remorse, and 
brush down every part of the furniture, without 
sparing a single cobweb, however sacred by long 
prescription. I communicated this proposal some 
days ago in a company of the first distinction, and 
enjoying the most honourable offices of the state. 
Among the number were the inspector of Great 
Britain ; Mr. Henriques, the director of the mi- 
nistry ; Ben Victor, the treasurer ; John Lock- 
man, the secretary; and the conductor of the im- 
perial magazine. They all acquiesced in the uti- 
lity of my proposal, but were apprehensive it 
might meet with some obstructions from court 
upholsterers and chambermaids, who would ob- 
ject to it from the demolition of the furniture, and 
the dangerous use of ferrets and ratsbane. 

My next proposal is rather more general than 
the former, and might probably meet with less 
opposition. Though no people in the world flatter 
each other more than the English, I know none 
who understand the art less, and flatter with such 
little refinement. Their panegyric, like a Tartar 
feast, is indeed served up with profusion, but 
their cookery is insupportable. A client here 
shall dress up a fricassee for his patron, that shall 
offend an ordinary nose before it enters the room. 
A town shall send up her address to a great mi- 
nister, which shall prove at once a satire on the 



116 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



minister and themselves. If the favourite of the 
day sits or stands, or sleeps, there are poets to 
put it into verse, and priests to preach it in the 
pulpit. In order, therefore, to free both those 
who praise, and those who are praised, from a 
duty probably disagreeable to both, I would con- 
stitute professed flatterers here as in several 
courts of India. These are appointed in the 
courts of their princes to instruct the people 
where to exclaim with admiration, and where to 
lay on an emphasis of praise. But an officer of 
this kind is always in waiting, when the emperor 
converses in a familiar manner among his rajahs 
and other nobility. At every sentence, when the 
monarch pauses, and smiles at what he has been 
saying, the Karamatman, as this officer is called, 
is to take it for granted, that his majesty has said 
a good thing. Upon which he cries out • Karamat ! 
karamat ! a miracle ! a miracle !' and throws up hig 
hands and his eyes in an ecstasy. This is echoed 
by the courtiers around, while the emperor sits 
all this time in sullen satisfaction, enjoying the 
triumph of his joke, or studying a new repartee. 
I would have such an officer placed at every 
j great man's table in England. By frequent prac- 
j tice, he might soon become a perfect master of 
the art, and in time would turn out pleasing to 
his patron, no way troublesome to himself, and 
might prevent the nauseous attempts of many 
more ignorant pretenders. The clergy here, I am 
convinced, would relish this proposal. It would 
provide places for several of them ; and, indeed, 
by some of their late productions, many appear 
to have qualified themselves as candidates for 
this office already. 

But my last proposal I take to be of the utmost 
importance. Our neighbour, the empress of 
Russia, has, you may remember, instituted an 
order of female knighthood. The empress of 
Germany has also instituted another ; the Chinese 
have had such an order time immemorial. I am 
amazed the English have never come into such 
an institution. When I consider what kind of 
men are made knights here, it appears strange 
that they have never conferred this honour upon 
women. They make cheesemongers and pastry 
cooks knights ; then why not their wives ? They 
have called up tallow-chandlers to maintain the 
hardy profession of chivalry and arms ; then why 
not their wives ? Haberdashers are sworn, as I 
suppose all knights must be sworn ' never to fly 
in time of mellay or battle, to maintain and up- 
hold the noble estate of chivalry, with horse-har- 
nishe, and other knightlie habiliments.' Haber- 
dashers, I say, are sworn to all this, then why 
not their wives ? Certain I am, their wives un- 
derstand fighting, and feats of mellay and battle, 
better than they ; and as for knightlie horse and 
harnishe, it is probable, both know nothing more 
than the harness of a one horse chaise. No, no, 
my friend, instead of conferring any order upon 
the husbands, I would knight their wives. How- 
ever, the state should not be troubled with a new 
institution upon this occasion. Some ancient ex- 
ploded order might be revived, which would fur- 
nish both a motto and a name, the ladies might 
be permitted to choose for themselves. There 
are, for instance, the obsolete orders of the Dra- 
gon in Germany, of the Rue in Scotland, and the 
Porcupine in France, all well sounding names, 
and very applicable to my intended female insti- 
tution. Adieu. • 



LETTER CXI. 

To the same. 

Religious acts in England are far more nume- 
rous than in China. Every man who has interest 
enough to hire a conventicle here may set up for 
himself, and sell off a new religion. The sellers 
of the newest pattern at present give extreme 
good bargains, and let their disciples have a great 
deal of confidence for very little money. 

Their shops are much, frequented, and their 
customers every day increasing; for people are 
naturally fond of going to Paradise at as small ex- 
pense as possible. 

Yet you must not conceive this modern sect as 
differing in opinion from those of the established 
religion; difference in opinion, indeed, formerly 
divided their sectaries, and sometimes drew their 
armies to the field. White gowns and black man- 
tles, flapped hats, and cross pocket-holes, were 
once the obvious causes of quarrel; men then had 
some reasons for fighting, they knew what they 
fought about ; but at present they are arrived at 
such refinement in religion-making, that they 
have actually formed a new sect without a new 
opinion ; they quarrel for opinions they both 
equally defend ; they hate each other, and that is 
all the difference between them. 

But though their principles are the same, their 
practice is somewhat different. Those of the es- 
tablished religion laugh when they are pleased, 
and their groans are seldom extorted but by pain 
or danger. The new sect, on the contrary, weep 
for their amusement, and use little music, except 
a chorus of sighs and groans, or tunes that are 
made to imitate groaning. Laughter is their 
aversion ; lovers court each other from the La- 
mentations ; the bridegroom approaches the nup- 
tial couch in sorrowful solemnity, and the bride 
looks more dismal than an undertaker's shop. 
Dancing round the room is, with them, running 
in a direct line to the devil ; and as for gaming, 
though but in jest, they would sooner play with a 
rattle-snake's tail than finger a dice-box. 

By this time you perceive that I am describing 
a sect of enthusiasts, and you have already com- 
pared them with the Faquirs, Brahmins, and Ta- 
la^oins of the East. Among these, you know, 
are generations that have never been known to 
smile, and voluntary affliction makes up all the 
merit they can boast of. Enthusiasms in every 
country produce the same effects ; stick the Fa- 
quir with pins, or confine the Brahmin to a ver- 
min-hospital; spread the Talapoin on the ground, 
or load the sectary's brow with contrition ; those 
worshippers who discard the light of reason are 
ever gloomy ; their fears increase in proportion to 
their ignorance, as men are continually under 
apprehensions who walk in darkness. 

Yet there is still a stronger reason for the en- 
thusiast's being an enemy to laughter, namely, 
his being himself so proper an object of ridicule. 
It is remarkable, that the propagators" of false 
doctrines have ever been averse to mirth, and al- 
ways began by recommending gravity, when they 
intended to disseminate imposture. Fohi, the 
idol of China, is represented as having never 
laughed ; Zoroaster, the leader of the Brahmins, 
is said to have laughed but twice — upon his com- 
ing into the world, and upon his leaving it ; and 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



117 



Mahomet himself, though a lover of pleasure, was 
a professed opposer of gaiety. Upon a certain 
occasion, telling his followers that they would - 
yet appear naked at the resurrection, his favou- 
rite wife represented such an assembly as immo- 
dest and unbecoming. ' Foolish woman,' cried 
the grave prophet, ' though the whole assembly 
be naked, on that day they shall have forgotten 
to laugh.' Men like him opposed ridicule, be- 
cause they knew it to be a most formidable anta- 
gonist, and preached up gravity, to conceal their 
own want of importance. 

Ridicule has ever been the most powerful ene- 
my of enthusiasm, and properly the only anta- 
gonist that can be opposed to it with success. 
Persecution only serves to propagate new reli- 
gions ; they acquire fresh vigour beneath the ex- 
ecutioner and the axe, and like some vivacious 
insects, multiply by dissection. It is also impos- 
sible to combat enthusiasm with reason, for 
though it makes a show of resistance, it soon 
eludes the pressure, refers you to distinctions not 
to be understood, and feelings which it cannot 
explain. A man who would endeavour to fix an 
enthusiast by argument, might' as well attempt 
to spread quicksilver with his fingers. The only 
way to conquer a visionary is to despise him; the 
stake, the faggot, and the disputing doctor, in 
some measure ennoble the opinions they are 
brought to oppose ; they are harmless against in- 
novating pride ; contempt alone is truly dreadful. 
Hunters generally know the most vulnerable part 
of the beast they pursue, by the care which every 
animal takes to defend the side which is weak- 
est ; on what side the enthusiast is most vulne- 
rable may be known by the care which he takes 
in the beginning to work his disciples into gravity, 
and guard them against the power of ridicule. 

"When Phillip II. was king of Spain, there was 
a contest in Salamanca, between two orders of 
friars for superiority. The legend of one side 
contained more extraordinary miracles, but the 
legend of the other was reckoned most authentic. 
They reviled each other, as is usual in disputes of 
divinity, the people were divided into factions, 
and a civil war appeared unavoidable. In order 
to prevent such an imminent calamity, the com- 
batants were prevailed upon to submit their le- 
gends to the fiery trial, and that which came 
forth untouched by the fire was to have the vic- 
tory, and to be honoured with a double share of 
reverence. Whenever the. people flock to see a 
miracle, it is a hundred to one but that they see 
a miracle ; incredible therefore were the numbers 
that were gathered round upon this occasion ; the 
friars on each side approached, and confidently 
threw their respective legends into the flames ; 
when lo, to the utter disappointment of all the 
assembly, instead of a miracle, both legends were 
consumed. Nothing but this turning both par- 
ties into contempt could have prevented the effu- 
sion of blood. The people now laughed at their 
former folly, and wondered why they fell out. 
Adieu. 

LETTER CXII. 

To the same. 

The English are at present employed in celebrat- 
ing a feast which becomes general every seventh 
year ; the parliament of the nation being then 



dissolved, and another appointed to be chosen. 
This solemnity falls infinitely short of our feast of 
the lanterns in magnificence and splendour ; it is 
also surpassed by others of the East in unanimity 
and pure devotion : but no festival in the world 
can compare with it for, eating. Their eating, 
indeed, amazes me. Had I five hundred heads, 
and were each head furnished with brains, yet 
would they all be insufficient to compute the 
number of cows, pigs, geese, and turkeys, which 
upon this occasion, die for the good of their 
country ! 

To say the truth, eating seems to make a grand 
ingredient in all English parties of zeal, business, 
or amusement. When a church is to be built, or 
an hospital endowed, the directors assemble, and 
instead of consulting upon it, they eat upon it; 
by which means the business goes forward with 
success. When the poor are to be relieved, the 
officers appointed to deal out public charity as- 
semble and eat upon it: nor has it ever been 
known that they filled the bellies of the poor, till 
they had previously satisfied their own. But in 
the election of magistrates, the people seem to 
exceed all bounds ; the merits of a candidate are 
often measured by the number of his treats ; his 
constituents assemble, eat upon him, and lend 
their applause, not to his integrity or sense, but 
to the quantities of his beef and brandy. 

And yet I could forgive this people their plen- 
tiful meals on this occasion, as it is extremely 
natural for every man to eat a great deal when he 
gets it for nothing ; but what amazes me most is, 
that all this good living no way contributes to im- 
prove their good humour. On the contrary, they 
seem to lose their temper as they lose their ap- 
petites ; every morsel they swallow, and every 
glass they pour down, serves to increase their 
animosity. Many an honest man, before as 
harmless as a tame rabbit, when loaded with a 
single election dinner, has become more danger- 
ous than a charged culverin. Upon one of these 
occasions, I have actually seen a bloody-minded 
man milliner sally forth at the head of a mob, de- 
termined to face a desperate pastry-cook, who was 
general of the opposite party. 
f i But you must not suppose they are without a 
pretext for thus beating each other. On the con- 
trary, no man here is so uncivilized as to beat his 
neighbour, without producing very sufficient 
reasons. One candidate, for instance, treats with 
gin, a spirit of their own manufacture ; another 
always drinks brandy, imported from abroad. 
Brandy is a wholesome liquor; gin a liquor wholly 
their own. This then furnishes an obvious cause 
of quarrel. Whether it be most reasonable to get 
drunk with gin, or get drunk with brandy? The 
mob meet upon the debate, fight themselves 
sober, and then draw off to get drunk again, and 
charge for another encounter. So that the 
English may now properly be said to be engaged 
in war; since, while they are subduing their 
enemies abroad, they are breaking each others' 
heads at home. 

I lately made an excursion to a neighbouring 
village, in order to be a spectator of the ceremo- 
nies practised upon this occasion. I left town in 
company with three fiddlers, nine dozen of hams, 
and a corporation poet, which were designed as 
reinforcements to the gin-drinking party. We 
entered the town with, a very good face; the 
fiddlers, no way intimidated by the enemy, kept 



118 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



handling their arms up the principal street. By 
this prudent manoeuvre, they took peaceable pos- 
session of their head-quarters, amidst the shouts 
of multitudes, who seemed perfectly rejoiced at 
hearing their music, hut above all at seeing their 
bacon. 

I must own I could not avoid being pleased to 
see all ranks of people, on this occasion, levelled 
into an equality, and the poor, in some measure, 
enjoying the primitive privileges of nature. If 
there was any distinction shown, the lowest of 
the people seemed to receive it from the rich. I 
could perceive a cobbler with a levee at his door, 
and a haberdasher giving audience from behind 
his counter. But my reflections were soon inter- 
rupted by a mob, who demanded whether I was 
for the distillery or the brewery? As these were 
terms with which I was totally unacquainted, I 
chose at first to be silent ; however, I know not 
what might have been the consequence of my re- 
serve, had not the attention of the mob been 
called off to a skirmish between a brandy-drinker's 
cow, and a gin-drinker's mastiff, which turned 
out, greatly to the satisfaction of the mob, in 
favour of the mastiff. 

This spectacle, which afforded high entertain- 
ment, was at last ended by the appearance of one 
of the candidates, who came to harangue the 
mob; he made a very pathetic speech upon the 
late excessive importation of foreign drams, and 
the downfall of the distillery ; I could see some of 
the audience shed tears. He was accompanied 
in his procession by Mrs. Deputy and Mrs. 
Mayoress. Mrs. Deputy was not the least in 
liquor; and as for Mrs. Mayoress, one of the 
spectators assured me in the ear, that ' she was 
a very fine woman before she had the small- 
pox.' 

Mixing with the crowd, I was now conducted 
to the hall where the magistrates are chosen ; but 
what tongue can describe this scene of confusion ; 
the whole crowd seemed equally inspired with 
anger, jealousy, politics, patriotism, and punch ; 
I remarked one figure that was carried up by two 
men upon this occasion. I at first began to pity 
his infirmities as natural, but soon found the 
fellow so drunk, that he could not stand ; another 
made his appearance to give his vote, but, though 
he could stand, he actually lost the use of his 
tongue, and remained silent ; a third, who, though 
excessively drunk, could both stand and speak, 
being asked the candidate's name for whom he 
voted, could be prevailed upon to make no other 
answer but tobacco and brandy. In short, an 
election-hall seems to be a theatre, where every 
passion is seen without disguise ; a school, where 
fools may readily become worse, and where phi- 
losophers may gather wisdom. Adieu. 



LETTER CXIIL 
From the same. 

The disputes among the learned here are now 
carried on in a much more compendious manner 
than formerly. There was a time when folio was 
brought to oppose folio, and a champion was often 
listed for life under the banners of a single sorites. 
At present, the controversy is decided in a sum- 
mary way; an epigram or an acrostic finishes the 



debate, and the combatant, like the recursive 
Tartar, advances and retires with a single blow. 

An important literary debate at present en- 
grosses the attention of the town. It is carried 
on with sharpness, and a proper share of this 
epigrammatical fury. An author, it seems, haa 
taken an aversion to the faces of several players, 
and has written verses to prove his dislike ; the 
players fall upon the author, and assure the town 
he must be dull, and their faces must be good, 
because he wants a dinner ; a critic comes to the 
poet's assistance, asserting that the verses were 
perfectly original, and so smart, that he could 
never have written them without the assistance 
of friends; the friends upon this arraign the 
critic, and plainly prove the verses to be all the 
author's own. So at it they are, all four together 
by ttae ears, the friends at the critic, the critic at 
the players, the players at the author, and the 
author at the players again. It is impossible to 
determine how this many-sided contest will end, 
or which party to adhere to. The town, without 
siding with any, view the combat in suspense, 
like the fabled hero of antiquity, who beheld the 
earth-born brothers give and receive mutual 
wounds, and fall by indiscriminate destruction. 

This is, in some measure, a state of the present 
dispute; but the combatants here differ in one 
respect from the champions of the fable. Every 
new wound only gives vigour for another blow; 
though they appear to strike, they are in fact 
mutually swelling themselves into consideration, 
and thus advertising each other into fame. 'To- 
day,' says one, 'my name shall be in the Gazette; 
the next day my rival's ; people will naturally in- 
quire atoout us; thus we shall at least make a 
noise in the street, though we have nothing to 
sell.' I have read of a dispute of a similar nature, 
wh'ch was managed here about twenty years ago. 
Hildebrand Jacob, as I think he was called, and 
Charles Johnson were poets, both at that time 
possessed of great reputation ; for Johnson had 
written eleven plays, acted with great success, 
and Jacob, though he had written but five, had 
five times thanked the town for their unmerited 
applause. They soon became mutually enamoured 
of each other's talents ; they wrote, they felt, they 
challenged the town for each other. Johnson as- 
sured the public, that no poet alive had the easy 
simplicity of Jacob, and Jacob exhibited Johnson 
as a master-piece in the pathetic. Their mutual 
praise was not without effect, the town saw their 
plays, were in raptures, read, and without cen- 
suring them, forgot them. So formidable a 
union, however, was soon opposed by Tibbald. 
Tibbald asserted, that the tragedies of one had 
faults, and the comedies of the other substituted 
wit for vivacity. The combined champions flew 
at him like tigers, arraigned the censurer's judg- 
ment, and impeached his sincerity. It was a long 
time a dispute among the learned, which was, in 
fact, the greatest man, Jacob, Johnson, or Tib- 
bald ; they had all written for the stage with great 
success, their names were seen in almost evesy 
paper, and their works in every coffee-house. 
However, in the hottest of the dispute, a fourth 
combatant made his appearance, and swept away 
the three combatants, tragedy, comedy, and all, 
into undistinguished ruin. 

From this time, they seemed consigned into 
the hands of criticism, scarce a day past in which 
they were not arraigned as detested writers. The 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



119 



critics, these enemies of Dryden and Pope, were 
their enemies. So Jacob and Johnson, instead of 
mending by criticism, called it envy; and because 
Dryden and Pope were censured, they compared 
themselves to Dryden and Pope. 

But to return : the weapon chiefly used in the 
present controversy is epigram; and certainly 
never was a keener made use of. They have dis- 
covered surprising sharpness on both sides. The 
first that came out upon this occasion, was a kind 
of new composition in this way, and might more 
properly be called an epigrammatic thesis, than 
an epigram. It consists, first, of an argument in 
prose ; next follows a motto from Roscommon : 
then comes the epigram; and lastly, notes serving 
to explain the epigram. But you shall have it 
with all its decorations. 

AN EPIGRAM. 



Worry d with debts, and past all hopes of bail, 
His pea he prostitutes t' avoid a jail. — Roscom* 

' Let not the hungry Bavius' angry stroke 
Awake resentment, or your rage provoke ; 
But, pitying his distress, let virtue* shine, 
And giving each your bounty,* let him dine; 
For thus retain'd, as learned counsel can, 
Each case, however bad he'll new japan : 
And by a quick transition, plainly show 
'Twas no defect of yours, but poeket low, 
That caused his putrid kennel to o'erflow.' 

The last lines are certainly executed in a very 
masterly manner. It is of that species of ar- 
gumentation called the perplexing. It effectually 
flings the antagonist into a mist ; there is no 
answering it; the laugh is raised against him, 
whilst he is endeavouring to find out the jest. At 
once he shows, that the author has a kennel, and 
that this kennel is putrid, and that this putrid 
kennel overflows. But why does it overflow ? It 
overflows because the author happens to have 
low pockets I 

There was also another new attempt in this 
way; a prosaic epigram which came out upon this 
occasion. This is so full of matter, that a critic 
might split it into fifteen epigrams, each properly 
fitted with its sting. You shall see it. 



to g. c. AND 



i. i. 



"Twas you, or I, or he, or altogether, 

'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether. 

This I believe; between us, great or small, 

You, I, he, wrote it not — 'twas Churchill's all.' 

There, there's a perplex ! I could have wished 
to make it quite perfect; the author, as in the 
case before, had added notes. Almost every word 
admits a scholium, and a long one too. I, YOU, 
HE! Suppose- a stranger should ask, — 'And 
who are you?' Here are three obscure persons 
spoken of, that may in a short time be utterly 
forgotten." Their names should have consequently 
been mentioned in notes at the bottom. But 
when the reader comes to the words great and 
small, the maze is inextricable. Here the stranger 
may dive for a mystery, without ever reaching 
the bottom. Let him know then, that small is a 
word purely introduced to make good rhyme, and 
great was a very proper word to keep small com- 
pany. 

* Charity. 

t Settled at one shilling, the price of the poem. 



Yet, by being thus a spectator of others' dangers, 
I must own I begin to tremble in this literary 
contest for my own. I begin to fear that my 
challenge to doctor Rock was unadvised, and has 
procured me'more antagonists than I had at first 
expected. I have received private letters from 
several of the literati here, that fill my soul with 
apprehension. I may safely aver, that I never 
gave any creature in this good city offence, except 
only my rival doctor Rock, yet by the letters I 
every day receive, and by some I have seen 
printed, I am arraigned at one time as being a 
dull fellow, at another as being pert; I am here 
petulant, there I am heavy: by the head of my 
ancestors, they treat me with more inhumanity 
than a flying fish. If I dive and run my nose to 
the bottom, there a devouring shark is ready to 
swallow me up ; if I skim the surface, a pack of 
dolphins are at my tail to snap me; but when I 
take wing and attempt to escape them by flight, I 
become a prey to every ravenous bird that win- 
nows the bosom of the deep. Adieu. 



LETTER CXIV. 
To the same. 

The formalities, delays, and disappointments, 
that precede a treaty of marriage here, are usually 
as numerous as those previous to a treaty of 
peace. The laws of this country are finely cal- 
culated to promote all commerce, but the com- 
merce between the sexes. Their encouragements 
for propagating hemp, madder, and tobacco, are 
indeed admirable ! Marriages are the only com- 
modity that meet with none. 

Yet from the vernal softness of the air, the 
verdure of the fields, the transparency of the 
streams, and the beauty of the women, I know 
few countries more proper to invite to courtship. 
Here love might sport among painted lawns and 
warbling groves, and revel upon gales, wafting at 
once both fragrance and harmony. Yet it seems 
he has forsaken the island; and when a couple 
are now to be married, mutual love, or union of 
minds, is the last and most trifling consider- 
ation. If their goods and chattels can be brought 
to unite, their sympathetic souls are ever ready to 
guarantee the treaty. The gentleman's mortgaged 
lawn becomes enamoured of the lady's marriage- 
able grove; the match is struck up, and both 
parties are piously in love — according to act of 
parliament. 

Thus, they who have fortune are possessed at 
least of something that is lovely; but I actually 
pity those that have none. I am told there was a 
time, when ladies, with no other merit but youth, 
virtue, and beauty, had a chance for husbands, at 
least among the ministers of the church, or the 
officers in the army. The blush and innocence of 
sixteen was said to have a powerful influence 
over these two professions. But of late all the 
little traffic of blushing, ogling, dimpling, and 
smiling, has been forbidden by an act, in that 
case wisely made and provided. A lady's whole 
cargo of smiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared 
utterly contraband, till she arrives in the warm 
latitudes of twenty-two, where commodities of 
this kind are too often found to decay. She is 
then permitted to dimple and smile, when the 



12<- 



U SMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



dimples and smiles begin to forsake her; and 
when perhaps grown ugly, is charitably intrusted 
with an unlimited use of her charms. Her lovers, 
however, by this time have forsaken her; the 
captain has changed for another mistress; the 
priest himself, leaves her in solitude, to bewail 
her virginity, and she dies even without benefit 
of elergy. 

Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love 
with as much earnestness as the rudest savage of 
Sofala. The genius is surely now no more. In 
every region I find enemies in arms to oppress 
him. Avarice in Europe, jealousy in Persia, 
ceremony in China, poverty among the Tartars, 
and lust in Circassia, are all prepared to oppose 
his power. The genius is certainly banished from 
earth, though once adored under such a variety of 
forms. He is no where to be found; and all that 
the ladies of each country can produce, are but a 
few trifling relics as instances of his former resi- 
dence and favour. 

The Genius of love (says the eastern apologue) 
had long resided in the happy plains of Abra, 
where every breeze was health, and every sound 
produced tranquillity. His temple at first was 
crowded, but every age lessened the number of 
his votaries, or cooled their devotion. Perceiving, 
therefore, his altars at last quite deserted, he was 
resolved to remove to some more propitious re- 
gion ; and he apprised the fair sex of every coun- 
try, where he could hope for a proper reception, 
to assert their right to his presence among them. 
In return to this proclamation, embassies were 
sent from the ladies of every part of the world to 
invite him, and to display the superiority of their 
claims. 

And first the beauties of China appeared. No 
country could compare with them for modesty, 
either of look, dress, or behaviour ; their eyes were 
never lifted from the ground ; their robes of the 
most beautiful silk, hid their hands, bosom, and 
neck, while their faces only were left uncovered. 
They indulged no airs that might express loose 
desire, and they seemed to study only the graces of 
inanimate beauty. Their black teeth and plucked 
eye-brows were, "; however, alleged by the genius 
against them, but he set them entirely aside, when 
he came to examine their little feet. 

The beauties of Circassia next made their ap- 
pearance. They advanced hand in hand, singing 
the most immodest airs, and leading up a dance 
m the most luxurious attitudes. Their dress was 
but half a covering ; the neck, the left breast, and 
all the limbs were exposed to view, which, after 
some time, seemed rather to satiate than inflame 
desire. The lily and the rose contended in form- 
ing their complexions, and a soft sleepiness of eye 
added irresistible poignancy to their charms; 
but their beauties were obtruded, nor offered to 
their admirers ; they seemed to give rather than 
receive courtship; and the Genius of love dis- 
missed them as unworthy his regard, since they 
exchanged the duties of love, and made themselves 
not the pursued, but the pursuing sex. 
fc The kingdom of Cashmire next produced its 
charming deputies. This happy region seemed 
peculiarly sequestered by nature for his abode. 
Shady mountains fenced it on one side from the 
scorching sun ; the sea-borne breezes on the other, 
gave peculiar luxuriance to the air. Their com- 
plexions were of a bright yellow, that appeared 
alnjost transparent, while the crimson tulip 



seemed to blossom on their cheeks. Their fea- 
tures and limbs were delicate beyond the statuary's 
power to express; and their teeth whiter than 
their own ivory. He was almost persuaded to 
reside among them, when unfortunately one of 
the ladies talked of appointing his seraglio. 

In this procession the naked inhabitants of 
Southern America would not be left behind; their 
charms were found to surpass whatever the warm- 
est imagination could conceive; and served to 
show that beauty could be perfect, even" with the 
seeming disadvantage of a brown complexion. 
But their savage education rendered them utterly 
unqualified to make the proper use of their power, 
and they were rejected as being incapable of 
uniting mental with sensual satisfaction. In this 
manner the deputies of other kingdoms had their 
suits rejected; the black beauties of Benin, and 
the tawny daughters of Borneo, the women of 
Wida, with well-scarred faces, and the hideous 
virgins of Cafraria, the squab ladies of Lapland, 
three feet high, and the giant fair ones of Pata- 
gonia. 

The beauties of Europe at last appeared ; grace 
was in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in 
every eye. It was the universal opinion, while 
they were approaching, that they would prevail ; 
and the genius seemed to lend them his most 
favourable attention. They opened their preten- 
sions with the utmost modesty; but unfortunate- 
ly, as their orator proceeded, she happened to let 
fall the words, ' house in town, settlement, and 
pin-money.' These seemingly harmless terms 
had instantly a surprising effect ; the genius, with 
ungovernable rage, burst from amidst the circle, 
and waving his youthful pinions, left this earth, 
and flew back to those ethereal mansions from 
whence he descended. 

The i whole assembly was struck with amaze- 
ment ; they now justly apprehended, that female 
power would be no more, since love had forsaken 
them. They continued some time thus in a state of 
torpid despair, when it was proposed by one of the 
number, that since the real genius had left them, 
in order to continue their power, they should set 
up an idol in his stead; and that the ladies of 
every country should furnish him with what each 
liked best. This proposal was instantly relished 
and agreed to. An idol was formed by uniting 
the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no 
way resembling the departed genius. The ladies 
of China furnished the monster with wings ; those 
of Cashmire supplied him with horns ; the dames 
of Europe clapped a purse in his hand ; and the 
virgins of Congo furnished him with a tail. Since 
that time, all the vows addressed to love are in. 
reality paid to the idol ; but, as in other false 
religions, the adoration seems most fervent where 
the heart is least sincere. Adieu. 



LETTER CXV. 

To the same. 

Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate in 
the praise of human nature. The dignity of man 
is a subject that has always been the favourite 
theme of humanity; they have declaimed with 
that ostentation which usually accompanies such 
as are sure of having a partial audience ; they 
have obtained victories, because there were none 



THE CITIZEN OF THE V.OELD. 



121 



to oppose. Yet, from zul I have ever read or 
seen, men appear more apt to err by having too 
high, than by having too despicable an opinion of 
their nature; and by attempting to exalt their 
original place in the creation, depress their real 
value in society. 

The most ignorant nations have always been 
found to think most highly of themselves. The 
Deity has ever been thought peculiarly concerned 
in their glory and preservation; to have fought 
their battles, and inspired their teachers; their 
■wizards are said to be familiar with heaven ; and 
every hero has a guard of angels, as well as men 
to attend him. When the Portuguese first came 
among the wretched inhabitants of the coast of 
Africa, these savage nations readily allowed the 
strangers more skill in navigation and war; yet 
still considered them, at best, but as useful ser- 
vants brought to their coasts by their guardian 
serpent, to supply them with luxuries they could 
have lived without. Though they could grant 
the Portuguese more riches, they could never 
allow them to have such a king as their Tottimon- 
delem, who wore a bracelet of shells round his 
neck, and whose legs were covered with ivory. 

In this manner, examine a savage in the history 
of his country and predecessors, you ever find his 
warriors able to conquer armies, and his sages 
acquainted with more possible knowledge : human 
nature is to him an unknown country; he thinks 
it capable of great things, because he is ignorant 
of its boundaries ; whatever can be conceived to be 
done, he allows to be possible, and whatever is 
possible, he conjectures must have been done. 
He never measures the actions and powers of 
others by what himself is able to perform, nor 
makes a proper estimate of the greatness of his 
fellows by- bringing it to the standard of his own 
incapacity. He is satisfied to be one of a country 
where mighty things have been ; and imagines 
the fancied power of others reflects a lustre on 
himself. Thus, by degrees, he loses the idea of 
his own insignificance, in a confused notion of the 
extraordinary powers of humanit]', and is willing 
to grant extraordinary gifts to every pretender, 
because unacquainted with their claims. 

This is the reason why demi-gods and heroes 
have ever been erected in times or countries of 
ignorance and barbarity; they addressed a people 
who had high opinions of human nature, because 
they were ignorant how far it could extend ; they 
addressed a people who were willing to allow that 
men should be gods, because they were yet im- 
perfectly acquainted with God and with man. 
These impostors knew that all men are naturally 
fond of seeing something very great, made from 
the little materials of humanity; the ignorant 
nations are not more proud of building a tower to 
reach heaven, or a pyramid to last for ages, than of 
raising up a demi-god of their own country and 
creation. The same pride that erects a colossus 
or a pyramid, installs a god or a hero ; but though 
the adoring savage can raise his colossus to the 
clouds, he can exalt the hero not one inch above 
the standard of humanity; incapable, therefore, 
of exalting the idol, he debases himself, and falls 
prostrate before him. 

When man has thus acquired an erroneous idea 
of the dignity of his species, he and the gods 
become perfectly intimate; men are but angels, 
angels are but men, nay but servants that stand in 
baiting to execute human commands. The Per- 



sians, for instance, thus address their prophet 
Haly :* 'I salute thee, glorious Creator, of whom 
the sun is but a shadow. Master-piece of the 
Lord ofhuman creatures, great star of justice and 
religion. The sea is not rich and liberal but by 
the gifts of thy munificent hands. The angel 
treasurer of heaven reaps his harvest in the fertile 
gardens of thy nature. Theprimum mobile would 
never dart the ball of the sun through the trunk 
of heaven, were it not to serve the morning out of 
the extreme love she has for thee. The angel 
Gabriel, messenger of truth, every day kisses the 
groundsil of thy gate. Were there a place more 
exalted than the most high throne of God, I would 
affirm it to be thy place, O master of the faithful! 
Gabriel with all his art and knowledge, is but a 
mere scholar to thee. Thus, my friend, men 
think proper to treat angels ; but if indeed there 
be such an order of beings, with what a degree of 
satirical contempt must they listen to the songs of 
little mortals, thus flattering each other. Thus 
to see creatures, wiser indeed than the monkey, 
and more active than the oyster; claiming to 
themselves the mastery of heaven, minims, the 
tenants of an atom, thus arrogating a partnership 
in the creation of universal nature ! Surely heaven 
is kind that launches no thunder at those guilty 
heads ; but it is kind, and regards their follies 
with pity, nor will destroy creatures that it loved 
into being. 

But whatever success this practice of making 
demi-gods might have been attended with in bar- 
barous nations, I do not know that any became a 
god in a countiy where the inhabitants were re- 
fined. Such countries generally have too close an 
inspection into human weakness, to think it in- 
vested with celestial power. They sometimes, 
indeed, admit the gods of strangers, or of their 
ancestors, which had their existence in times of 
obscurity; their weakness being forgotten, while 
nothing but their power and their miracles were 
remembered. The Chinese, for instance, never 
had a god of their own country; the idols, which 
the vulgar worship at this day, were brought from 
the barbarous nations around them. The Roman 
emperors, who pretended to divinity, were gene- 
rally taught by a poignard that they were mortal; 
and Alexander, though he passed among bar- 
barous countries for a real god, could never per- 
suade his polite countrymen into a similitude of 
thinking. The Lacedemonians shrewdly com- 
plied with his commands, by the following sarcastic 
edict : 

Ei A/Ug«vogo? (3ovXzrct.i uvai ©tcs, ©so? itrru. 
Adieu. 



LETTER CXVI. 

To the same. 

There is something irresistibly pleasing in the 
conversation of a fine woman ; even though her 
tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches 
wisdom. The mind sympathizes with the regu- 
larity of the object in view, and struck with ex- 
ternal grace, vibrates into respondent harmony. 
In this agreeable disposition, I lately found myself 
in company with my friend and his niece. Our 
conversation turned upon love, which she seemed 
equally capable of defending and inspiring. We 



* Chardin's Travels, p. 402. 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



were eacti of different opinions upon this subject. 
The lady insisted that it was a natural and uni- 
versal passion, and produced the happiness of 
those who cultivated it with proper precaution. 
My friend denied it to he the work of nature, but 
allowed.it to have a real existence, and affirmed 
that it was of infinite service in refining society; 
while I, to keep up the dispute, affirmed it to be 
merely a name, first used bv the cunning part of 
the fair sex, and admitted by the silly part of 
ours, therefore no way more natural than taking 
snuff or chewing opium. 

' How is it possible,' cried I, ' that such a pas- 
sion can be natural, when our opinions even of 
beauty, which inspires it are entirely the result of 
fashion and caprice. The ancients, who pretend- 
ed to be connoisseurs in the art, have praised 
narrow foreheads, red hair, and eye-brows that 
joined each other over the nose. Such were the 
charms that once captivated Catullus, Ovid, and 
Anacreon. Ladies would, at present, be out of 
humour, if their lovers praised them for such 
graces ; and should an antique beauty now revive, 
her face would certainly be put under the disci- 
pline of the tweezer, forehead-cloth, and lead- 
comb, before it could be seen in public company. 

'But the difference between the ancients and 
moderns is not so great as between the different 
countries of the present world. A lover of Gon- 
gora, for instance, sighs for thick lips ; a Chinese 
lover is poetical in praise of thin. In Circassia a 
straight nose is thought most consistent with 
beauty ; cross but a mountain which separates it 
from the Tartars, and there flat nose::, tawny 
skins, and eyes three inches asunder, are all tli8 
fashion In Persia and some other countries, a 
man when he marries, chooses to have his bride a 
maid; in the Philippine Islands, if a bridegroom 
happens to perceive on the first night that he is 
put off with a virgin, the marriage is declared void 
to all intents and purposes, and the bride sent 
back with disgrace. In some parts of the east, a 
woman of beauty, properly fed up for sale, often 
amounts to one hundred crowns; in the kingdom 
of Loango, ladies of the very best fashion are sold 
for a pig; queens, however, sell better, and some- 
times amount to a cow. In short, turn even to 
England, do not I there see the beautiful part of 
the sex neglected; and none now marrying or 
making love but old men and old women that have 
saved money ? Do not I see beauty from fifteen to 
twenty-one, rendered null and void to all intents 
and purposes, and those six precious years of 
womanhood put under a statute of virginity? 
What ! shall I call that rancid passion love, which 
passes between an old bachelor of fifty-six and a 
widow of forty-nine? Never! never! What ad 
vantage is society to reap, from an intercourse 
where the big belly is ot'tenest on the man's side.' 
Would any persuade me that such a passion was 
natural, unless the human race were more fit for 
love as they approached the decline, and, like silk 
worms, become breeders just before they ex 
pired V 

'Whether love be natural or no,' replied my 
friend, gravely, ' it contributes to the happiness c$ 
every society into which it is introduced. All out 
pleasures are short, and can only charm at inter* 
vals ; love is a method of protracting our greatest 
pleasure; and surely that gamester who plays the 
greatest stake to the best advantage, will, at the 
end of life, rise victorious. This was the opinion 



of Vanini, who affirmed, that ' every hour was lost 
which was not spent in love.' His accusers were 
unable to comprehend his meaning, and the poor 
advocate for love was burned in flames, alas ! no 
way metaphorical. But whatever advantages the 
individual may reap from this passion, society 
will certainly be refined and improved by its intro- 
duction 1 all laws, calculated to discourage it, 
tend to imbrute the species, and weaken the state. 
Though it cannot plant morals in the human breast 
it cultivates them when there ; pity, generosity, 
and honour, receive a brighter polish from its 
assistance, and a single amour is sufficient entirely 
to brush off the clown. 

' But it is an exotic of the most delicate consti- 
tution ; it requires the greatest art to introduce it 
into a state, and the smallest discouragement is 
sufficient to repress it again. Let us only con- 
sider with what ease it was formerly extinguished 
in Rome, and with what difficulty it was lately 
revived in Europe ; it seemed to sleep for ages, 
and at last fought its way among us through tilts, 
tournaments, dragons, and all the dreams of 
chivalry. The rest of the world, China only ex- 
cepted, are, and have ever been utter strangers to 
its delights and advantages. In other countries, 
as men find themselves stronger than women, they 
lay a claim to rigorous superiority ; this is natural, 
and love, which gives up this natural advantage, 
must certainly be the effect of art ! an art calcu- 
lated to lengthen out our happier moments and 
add new graces to society.' 

' I entirely acquiesce in your sentiments,' says 
the lady, ' with regard to the advantages of this 
passion, but cannot avoid giving it a nobler origin 
than you have been pleased to assign. I must 
think, that those countries where it is rejected, 
are obliged to have recourse to art to stifle so 
natural a production, and those nations, where 
it is cultivated, only make nearer advances to 
nature. The same efforts that are used in some 
places to suppress pity and other natural passions, 
may have been employed to extinguish love. No 
nation, however unpolished, is remarkable for 
innocence, that is not famous for passion; it has 
flourished in the coldest, as well as in the warmest 
regions. Even in the sultry wilds of Southern 
America, the lover is not satisfied with possessing 
ftis mitsress's person, without having her mind. 

In all my Enna's beauties blest, 

Amidst profusion still I pine; 
For though she gives me up her breast, 

Its panting tenant is not mine.* 

' But the effects of love are too violent to be the 
result of an artificial passion. Nor is it in the 
power of fashion to force the constitution into 
those changes which we every day observe. Seve- 
ral have died of it. Few lovers are unacquainted 
with the fate of the two Italian lovers, Da Corsin 
aiid Julia Bellamano, who, after a long separation, 
expired with pleasure in each other's arms. Such 
instances are too strong confirmations of the reality 
of the passion, and serve to show, that suppressing 
it is but opposing the natural dictates of the 
heart.' Adieu. 

* Translation of a South American Ode. 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



123 



LETTER CXVII. 

To the same. 

The clock just struck two ; the expiring taper 
rises and sinks in the socket ; the watchman for- 
gets the hour in slumber; the laborious and the 
happy are at rest ; and nothing wakes but medi- 
tation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard 
once more fills the destroying bowl, the robber 
walks his midnight round, and the suicide lifts 
his guilty arm against his own sacred person. 

Let me no longer waste the night over the page 
of antiquity, or the sallies of contemporary genius, 
but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, ever 
changing, but a few hours past, walked before 
me, where she kept up the pageant, and now, like 
a froward child, seems hushed with her own im- 
portunities. 

What a gloom hangs all around ! The dying 
lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam ; no sound is 
heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant 
watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is for- 
gotten, an hour like this may well display the 
emptiness of human vanity. 

There will come a time when this temporary 
solitude may be made continual, and the city 
itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave 
a desert in its room. 

What cities, as great as this, have once tri- 
umphed in existence, had tbeir victories as great, 
joy as just, and as unbounded, and with short- 
sighted presumption promised themselves immor- 
tality ? Posterity can hardly trace the situation 
of some. The sorrowful traveller wanders over 
the awful ruins of others ; and as he beholds, he 
learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every 
sublunary possession. 

' Here,' he cries, ■ stood their citadel, now 
grown over with weeds , there their senate-house, 
but now the haunt of every noxious reptile ; tem- 
ples and theatres stood here, now only an undis- 
tinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for 
luxury and avarice first made them feeble. The 
rewards of the state were conferred on amusing, 
and not on useful members of society. Their 
riches and opulence invited the invaders, who, 
though at first repulsed, returned again, con- 
quered by perseverance, and at last swept the 
defendants into undistinguished destruction!' 

How few appear in those streets, which but 
some few hours ago were crowded; and those who 
appear now, no longer wear their daily mask, nor 
attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery ! 

But who are those who make the streets their 
couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness 
at the doors of the opulent X These are strangers, 
wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances 
are too humble to expect redress, and whose dis- 
tresses are too great even for pity. Their wretch- 
edness excites rather horror than pity. Some are 
without the covering even of rags, and other ema- 
ciated with disease; the world has disclaimed 
them ; society turns its back upon their distress, 
and has given them up to nakedness and hunger. 
These poor shivering females have once seen hap- 
pier days, and been flattered into ruin. They 
have been prostituted to the gay luxurious villain, 
and are now turned out to meet the severity of 
winter. Perhaps, now lying at tbe doors of their 
betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts are 



insensible, or debauchees who may curse, but 
will not relieve them. 

Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the 
sufferings of wretches I cannot relieve ! Poor 
houseless creatures ! the world will give you re- 
proaches but will not give you relief. The slight- 
est misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary 
uneasiness of the rich, are aggravated with all the 
power of eloquence, and held up to engage our 
attention and sympathetic sorrow. The poor 
weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate 
species of tyranny, and every law which gives 
others security, becomes an enemy to them. 

Why was this heart of mine formed with so 
much sensibility ; or why was not my fortune 
adapted to its impulse ! Tenderness, without a 
capacity of relieving, only makes the man who 
feels it more wretched than the object which sues 
for assistance. Adieu. 



LETTER CXVIII. 

From Fum Hoam, to Lien Chi Altangi, the discontented 
wanderer, by the way of Moscow. 

I have been just sent upon an embassy to Japan ; 
my commission is to be despatched in four days ; 
and you can hardly conceive the pleasure I shall 
find upon revisiting my native country. I shall 
leave with joy this proud, barbarous, inhospitable 
region, where every object conspires to diminish 
my satisfaction, and increase my patriotism. 

But though I find the inhabitants savage, yet 
the Dutch merchants, who are permitted to trade 
hither, seem still more detestable. They have 
raised my dislike to Europe in general ; by them 
I learn how low avarice can degrade human na- 
ture ; how many indignities a European will suf- 
fer for gain. 

I was present at an audience given by the em- 
peror to the Dutch envoy, who had sent several 
presents to all the courtiers some days previous 
to his admission ; but he was obliged to attend 
those designed for the emperor himself. From 
the accounts I had heard of this ceremony, my 
curiosity prompted me to be a spectator of the 
whole. 

First went the presents, set out on beautiful 
enamelled tables, adorned with flowers, borne 
on men's shoulders, and followed by Japanese 
music and dancers. From so great respect paid 
to the gifts themselves, I had fancied the donors 
must have received almost divine honours. But 
about a quarter of an hour after the presents had 
been carried in triumph, the envoy and his train 
were brought forward. They were covered from 
head to foot with long black veils, which pre- 
vented their seeing, each led by a conductor, 
chosen from the meanest of the people. In this 
dishonourable manner, having traversed the city 
of Jedo, they at length arrived at the palace gate, 
and after waiting half an hour were admitted into 
the guard-room. Here their eyes were uncover- 
ed, and in about an hour the gentleman usher 
introduced them into the hall of audience. The 
emperor was at length shown, sitting in a kind 
of alcove at the upper end of the room, and the 
Dutch envoy was conducted towards the throne. 

As soon as he had approached within a certain 
distance, the gentleman usher cried out with a 
loud voice, ' Holanda capitan ;' upon these words 



124 



goldsmith's miscellaneuos works. 



the envoy fell flat upon the ground, and crept 
upon his hands and feet towards the throne. Still 
approaching, he reared himself upon his knees, 
and then bowed his forehead to the ground. 
These ceremonies being over, he was directed to 
withdraw, still grovelling on his belly, and going 
backward like a lobster. 

Men must be excessively fond of riches when 
they are earned with such circumstances of ab- 
ject submission. Do the Europeans worship hea- 
ven itself with marks of more profound respect 1 
Do they confer those honours on the Supreme of 
beings, which they pay to a barbarous king, who 
gives them a permission to purchase trinkets and 
porcelain ? What a glorious exchange, to forfeit 
their national honour, and even their title to hu- 
manity, for a screen or a snuff-box. 

If these ceremonies, essayed in the first au- 
dience, appeared mortifying, those which are 
practised in the second are infinitely more so. In 
the second audience, the emperor and the ladies 
of the court were placed behind lattices, in such a 
manner as to see without being seen. Here all 
the Europeans were directed to pass in review, 
and grovel and act the serpent as before ; with 
this spectacle the whole court seemed highly de- 
lighted. The strangers were asked a thousand 
ridiculous questions, as their names, and their 
ages; they were ordered to write, to stand up- 
right, to sit, to stoop, to compliment each other, 
to be drunk, to speak the Japanese language, 
to talk Dutch, to sing, to eat ; in short, they were 
ordered to do all that could satisfy the curiosity of 
women. 

Imagine, my dear Altangi, a set of grave men 
thus transformed into buffoons, and acting a part 
every whit as honourable as that of those in- 
structed animals which are shown in the streets 
of Pekin to the mob on a holiday. Yet the cere- 
mony did not end here, for every great lord of the 
court was to be visited in the same manner, and 
their ladies, who took the whim from their hus- 
bands, were all equally fond of seeing the stran- 
gers perform, even the children seeming highly 
diverted with the dancing Dutchmen. 

* Alas !' cried I to myself, upon returning from 
such a spectacle, ' is this the nation which as- 
sumes such dignity at the court of Pekin 1 Is this 
that people that appear so proud at home, and in 
every country where they have the least autho- 
rity ? How does a love of gain transform the 
gravest of mankind into the most contemptible 
and ridiculous ! I had rather continue poor all my 
life, than become rich at such a rate. Perish 
those riches which are acquired at the expense of 
my honour or my humanity ! Let me quit,' said 
I, ' a country where there are none but such as 
treat all others like slaves, and more detestable 
still in suffering such treatment. I have seen 
enough of this nation to desire to see more of 
others. Let me leave a people suspicious to ex- 
cess, whose morals are corrupted, and equally 
debased by superstition and vice ; where the sci- 
ences are left uncultivated, where the great are 
slaves to the prince, and tyrants to the people, 
where the women are chaste only when debarred 
of the power of transgression, where the true dis- 
ciples of Confucius are not less persecuted than 
those of Christianity ; in a word, a country where 
men are forbidden to think, and consequently 
labour under the most miserable slavery, that of 
mental servitude.' Adieu. . 




rt eillarinif m». deiired J would gi 
of niyi.lf." 



LETTER CXIX. 



From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, first President of 
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China. 

The misfortunes of the great, my friend, are held 
up to engage our attention, are enlarged upon in 
tones of declamation, and the world is called 
upon to gaze at the noble sufferers ; they have at 
once the comfort of admiration and pity. 

Yet where is the magnanimity of bearing mis- 
fortunes when the whole world is looking on? 
Men in such circumstances can act bravely even 
from motives of vanity. He only who, in the 
vale of obscurity, can brave adversity, who, with- 
out friends to encourage, acquaintances to pity, or 
even without hope to alleviate his distresses, can 
behave with tranquillity and indifference, is truly 
great; whether peasant or courtier, he deserves 
admiration, and should be held up for our imita- 
tion and respect. 

The miseries of the poor are, however, entirely 
disregarded, though some undergo more real 
hardships in one day, than the great in their 
whole lives. It is indeed inconceivable what 
difficulties the meanest English sailor or soldier 
endures without murmuring or regret. Every 
day to him is a day of misery, and yet he bears 
his hard fate without repining. 

With what indignation do I hear the heroes of 
tragedy complain of misfortunes and hardships, 
whose greatest calamity is founded in arrogance 
and pride. Their severest distresses are pleasures, 
compared to what many of the adventuring poor 
every day sustain without murmuring. These 
may eat, drink, and sleep, have slaves to attend 
them, and are sure of subsistence for life, while 
many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to 
wander, without a friend to comfort or assist 
them, find enmity in every law, and are too poor 
to obtain even justice. 

I have been led into these reflections, from 
accidentally meeting some days ago, a poor fellow 
begging at one of the outlets of the town with a 
wooden leg. I was curious to learn what had re- 
duced him to his present situation ; and after 
giving him what I thought proper, desired to 
know the history of his life and misfortunes, and 
the manner in which he was reduced to his present 
distress. The disabled soldier, for such he was, 
with an intrepidity truly British, leaning on his 
crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply 
with my request, and gave me his history as 
follows : — 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



125 



'As for misfortunes, sir, I can't pretend to have 
gone through more than others. Except the loss 
of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don't 
know any reason, thank heaven, that I have to 
complain ; there are some who have lost both legs 
and an eye; but, thank heaven, it is not quite so 
bad with me. 

' My father was a labourer in the country, and 
died when I was five years old ; so I was put upon 
the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of 
man, the parishioners were not able to tell to 
what parish I belonged, or where I was born; so 
they sent me to another parish, and that parish 
sent me to a third; till at last it was thought I 
belonged to no parish at all. At length, hoAvever, 
they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a 
scholar, and had actually learned my letters ; but 
the master of the workhouse put me to business 
as soon as I was able to handle a mallet. 

'Here I lived an easy kind of a life for five 
years'. I only worked ten hours in the day, and 
had my meat and drink provided for my labour. 
It is true I was not suffered to stir far from the 
house, for fear I should run away; but what of 
that, I had the liberty of the whole house, and 
the yard before the door, and that was enough 
for me. 

'I was next bound out to a farmer, where I 
was up both early and late, but I eat and drank 
well, and liked my business well, till he died. 
Being then obliged to provide for myself, I was 
resolved to go and seek my fortune. Thus I lived, 
and went from town to town, working when J 
could get employment, and starving when 1 could 
get none, and might have lived so still; but hap- 
pening one day to go through a field belonging 
to a magistrate, T spied a hare crossing the path 
just before me. I believe the devil put it in my 
head to fling my stick at it. Well, what will you 
have on't? I killed the hare, and was bringing it 
away in triumph, when the justice himself met 
me ; he called me a villain, and collaring me, de- 
sired I would give an account of myself. I began 
immediately to give a full account of all that I 
knew of my breed, seed, and generation, but 
though I gave a very long account, the justice 
said, I could give no account of myself; so I was 
indicted, and found guilty of being poor, and sent 
to Newgate, in order to be transported to the 
plantations. 

' People may say this and that of being in jail; 
but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a 
place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my 
bellyful to eat and drink, and did no work ; put 
alas, this kind of life was too good to last for ever ! 
I was taken out of prison, after five months, but 
on board of a ship, and sent off with two hundred 
more. Our passage was but indifferent, for we 
were all confined in the hold, and died very fast 
for want of sweet air and provisions ; but for my 
part, I did not want meat, because I had a fever 
ail the way. Providence was kind; when pro- 
visions grew short it took away my desire of 
eating. When we came on shore, we were sold to 
the planters. I was bound for seven years, and 
as I was no scholar, for I had forgot my letters, I 
was obliged to work among the negroes; and 
served out my time, as in duty bound to do. 

' When my time was expired, I worked my pas- 
sage home, and glad I was to see Old England 
again, because I loved my country. O liberty! 
liberty ! liberty ! that is the property of every 



Englishman, and I will die in its defence ! I was 
afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a 
vagabond once more, so I did not much care to- 
go into the country, but kept about town, and did 
little jobs when I could get them. I was very 
happy in this manner for some time, till one 
evening coming home from work, two men 
knocked me down, and then desired me to stand 
still. They belonged to a press-gang; I was car- 
ried before the justice, and as I could give no 
account of myself (that was the thing that always 
hobbled me) I had my choice left, whether to go 
on board a man-of-war, or list for a soldier, l 
chose to be a soldier, and in this post of a gentle- 
man, I served two campaigns in Flanders, was at 
the battles of Val and Fontenoy, and received but 
one wound through the breast, which is trouble- 
some to this day. 

'When the peace came on, I was discharged; 
and as I could not work, because my wound was 
some times painful, I listed for a landman in the 
East India Company's service. I here fought the 
French in six pitched battles; and verily believe, 
that if I could read or write, our captain would 
have given me promotion, and made me a cor- 
poral. But that was not my good fortune, I soon 
fell sick, and when I became good for nothing, got 
leave to return home again with forty pounds in 
my pocket, which I saved in the service. This, 
was at the beginning of the present war; so I 
hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure 
of spending my money; but the government 
wanted men, and I was pressed again before ever 
I could set foot on shore. 

'The boatswain found me, as he said, an ob- 
stinate fellow; he swore that I understood my 
business perfectly well, but that I shammed Abra- 
ham, merely to be idle ; but, God knows, I knew 
nothing of sea-business ! he beat me without con- 
sidering what he was about. But still my forty 
pounds was some comfort to me under every 
beating; the money was my comfort, and the 
money I might ha^ye had to this day, but that our 
ship was taken by the French, and so I lost 
it all ! 

' Our crew was carried into a French prison, j 
and many of them died, because they were not 
used to live in a jail; but, for my part, it was 
nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night, 
however, as I was sleeping on the bed of boards,, 
with a warm blanket about me (for I always loved 
to lie well) I was awaked by the boatswain, who 
had a dark lanthorn in his hand. ' Jack,' says he- 
to me, 'will you knock out the French centry's 
brains?' — 'I don't care,' says I, striving to keep 
myself awake, 'if I lend a hand.'—' Then follow 
me,' says he, 'and I hope we shall do his business.' 
So up I got, and tied my blanket, which was all 
the clothes I had, about my middle, and went 
with him to fight the Frenchmen. We had no 
arms; but one Englishman is able to beat five 
French at any time; so we went down to the 
door, where both the centries were posted, and 
rushing upon them, seized their arms in a mo- 
ment and knocked them down. From thence 
nine of us ran together to the quay, and seizing 
the first open boat we met, got out of the harbour 
and put to sea ; we had not been here three days,, 
before we were taken up by an English privateer, 
who was glad of so many good hands, and we 
consented to run our chance. However, we had 
not so much luck as we expected. In three days 



126 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



we fell in with a French man-of-war of forty 
guns, while we had but twenty-three; so to it we 
went. The fight lasted for three hours, and I 
verily believe we should have taken the French 
man, but unfortunately we lost all our men, just 
as we were going to get the victory. I was once 
more in the power of the French, and I believe it 
would have gone hard with me, had I been 
brought back to my old jail in Brest ; but by good 
fortune Ave were retaken, and carried to England 
once more. 

' I had almost forgot to tell you, that in this 
last engagement I was wounded in two places ; I 
lost four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was 
shot off. Had I the good fortune to have lost my 
leg and the use of my hand on board a king's ship, 
and not a privateer, I should have been entitled 
to clothing and maintenance during the rest of 
my life, but that was not my chance; one man is 
born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and 
another with a wooden ladle. However, blessed 
be God, I enjoy geod health, and have no enemy in 
this world that I know of, but the French and the 
justice of peace.' 

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving my friend 
and me in admiration of his intrepidity and con- 
tent; nor could we avoid acknowledging, that an 
habitual acquaintance with misery is the truest 
school of fortitude and philosophy. Adieu. 



LETTER CXZ. 

From the same. 

The tities of European princes are rather more 
nuirercns than those of Asia, but by no means so 
sublime. The king of Visapour or Pegu, not 
satisfied with claiming the globe and all its ap- 
purtenances, to him and his heirs, asserts a pro- 
perty even in the firmament, and extends his 
orders to the milky way. The monarchs of 
Europe, with more modesty, confine their titles 
to earth, but make up by number what is wanting 
in their sublimity. Such is their passion for a 
long list of these splendid trifles, that I have 
known a German prince with more titles than 
subjects, and a Spanish nobleman with more 
names than shirts. 

Contrary to this, ' the English monarchs,' says 
a writer of the last century, • disdain to accept of 
such" titles, which tend only to increase their 
pride without improving their glory ; they are 
above depending on the feeble helps of heraldry 
for respect, perfectly satisfied with the conscious 
ness of acknowledged power.' At present, how 
ever, these maxims are laid aside; the English 
monarchs have of late assumed new titles, and 
have impressed their coins with the names and 
arms of obscure dukedoms, petty states, and sub ■ 
ordinate employments. Their design in this, I 
make no doubt, was laudably to add new lustre to 
the British throne; but in reality, paltry claims 
only serve to diminish that respect they are de- 
signed to secure. 

There is, in the honours assumed by kings, as 
in the decorations of architecture, a majestic sim- 
plicity, which best conduces to inspire our re- 
verence and respect; numerous and trifling orna- 
ments in either are strong indications of meanness 
in the designer, or of concealed deformity : should, 
for instance, the emperor of China, among other 
titles, assume that of deputy mandarine of Maccau ; 



or the monarch of Great Britain, France, and 
Ireland, desire to be acknowledged as duke of 
Brentford, Lunenburg, or Lincoln, the observer 
revolts at this mixture of important and paltry 
claims, and forgets the emperor in his familiarity 
with the duke or the deputy. 

I remember a similar instance of this inverted 
ambition, in the illustrious king of Manacabo, 
upon his first treaty with the Portuguese. Among 
the presents that were made him by the ambas- 
sador of that nation, was a sword with a brass 
hilt, which he seemed to set a peculiar value 
upon. This he thought too great an acquisition 
to his glory, to be forgotten among the number of 
his titles. He, therefore, gave orders that his 
subjects should style him for the future, ' Talipot, 
the immortal potentate of Manacabo, Messenger 
of the Morning, Enlightener of the Sun, Possessor 
of the whole Earth, and mighty Monarch of the 
Brass-handled Sword.' 

This method of mixing majestic and paltry 
titles, of quartering the arms of a great empire 
and an obscure province, upon the same medal 
here, had its rise in the virtuous partiality of 
their late monarchs. Willing to testify an affec- 
tion to their native country, they gave its name 
and ensigns a place upon their coins, and thus in 
some measure ennobled its obscurity. It was 
indeed but just, that a people which had given 
England up their king, should receive some 
honorary equivalent in return: but at present 
these motives are no more; England has naw 
a monarch wholly British, and it has some 
reason to hope for British titles upon British 
coins 

However, were the money of England designed 
to circulate in Germany, there would be no 
flagrant impropriety in impressing it with German 
names and arms; but though this might have 
been so upon former occasions, I am told there is 
no danger of it for the future ; as England there- 
fore designs to keep back its gold, I candidly 
think Lunenburg, Oldenburg, and the rest of 
them, may very well keep back their titles. 

It is a mistaken prejudice in princes, to think 
that a number of loud sounding names can give 
new claims to respect. The truly great have ever 
disdained them. When Timur the Lame had 
conquered Asia, an orator by profession came to 
compliment him on the occasion. He began his 
harangue, by styling him the most omnipotent 
and the most glorious object of the creation ; the 
emperor seemed displeased with his paltry adula- 
tion, yet still he went on, complimenting him as 
the most mighty, the most valiant, and the most 
perfect of beings. ' Hold there, my friend,' cries 
the lame emperor, 'hold there, till I have got 
another leg.' In fact, the feeble or the despotic 
alone find pleasure in multiplying these pageants 
of vanity; but strength and freedom have nobler 
aims, and often find the finest adulations in ma- 
jestic simplicity. 

The young monarch of this country has already 
testified a proper contempt for several unmeaning 
appendages on royalty; cooks and scullions have 
been obliged to quit their fires ; gentlemen's gen- 
tlemen, and the whole tribe of necessary people, 
who did nothing, have been dismissed from 
further services. A youth, who can thus bring 
back simplicity and frugality to a court, will 
soon probably have a true respect for his own 
glory, and while he has dismissed all useless 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



127 



employments, may disdain to accept of empty or 
degrading titles. Adieu. 



LETTER CXXI. 

From the same. 

Whenever I attempt to characterize the English 
in general, some unforeseen difficulties constantly 
occur to disconcert my design; I hesitate between 
censure and praise : when I consider them as a 
reasoning philosophical people, they have my ap- 
plause; but when I reverse the medal, and 
observe their inconstancy and irresolution, I can 
scarcely persuade myself that I am observing the 
same people. 

Yet upon examination, this very inconstancy, 
so remarkable here, flows from no other source 
than their love of reasoning. The man who 
examines a complicated subject on every side, 
and calls in reason to his assistance, will fre- 
quently change; will find himself distracted, by 
opposing probabilities and contending proofs ; 
every alteration of place will diversify the pro- 
spect, will give some latent argument new force, 
and contribute to maintain an anarchy in the 
mind. 

On the contrary, they who never examine with 
their own reason, act with more simplicity. Ig- 
norance is positive, instinct perseveres, and the 
human being moves in safety within the narrow 
circle of brutal uniformity. What is true with 
regard to individuals, is not less so when applied 
to states. A reasoning government like this is in 
continual fluctuation ; while those kingdoms 
where men are taught not to controvert, but to 
obey, continue always the same. In Asia, for 
instance, where the monarch's authority is sup- 
ported by force, and acknowledged through fear, 
a change of government is' entirely unknown. 
All the inhabitants seem to wear the same mental 
complexion, and remain contented with hereditary 
oppression. The sovereign's pleasure- is the ul- 
timate rule of duty ; every branch of the adminis- 
tration is a perfect epitome of the whole; and if 
one tyrant is deposed, another starts up in his 
room to govern as his predecessor. The English, 
on the contrary, instead of being led by power, 
endeavour to guide themselves by reason: in 
stead of appealing to the pleasure of the prince, 
appeal to the original rights of mankind. What 
one rank of men assert, is denied by others, as 
the reasons on opposite sides happen to come 
home with greater or less conviction. The people 
of Asia are directed by precedent, which never 
alters ; the English by reason, which is ever 
changing its appearance. 

The disadvantages of an Asiatic government 
acting in this manner by precedent are evident; 
original errors are thus continued, without hopes 
of redress, and all marks of genius are levelled 
down to one standard, since no superiority ot 
thinking can be allowed its exertion in mending 
obvious defects. But to recompense those defects, 
their governments undergo no new alterations, 
they have no new evils to fear, nor no fermen- 
tations in the constitution that continue: the 
struggle for power is soon over, and all becomes 
tranquil as before ; they are habituated to subor- 
dination, and men are taught to form no other 



desires than those which they are allowed to 
satisfy. 

The disadvantages of a government acting from 
the immediate influence of reason, like that of 
England, are not less than those of the former. 
It is extremely difficult to induce a number of 
free beings to co-operate for their mutual benefit ; 
every possible advantage will necessarily be 
sought, and every attempt to procure it must be 
attended with a new fermentation; various rea- 
sons will lead different ways, and equity and. 
advantage will be out-balanced by a combination 
of clamour and prejudice. But though such a 
people may thus be in the wrong, they have been 
influenced by a happy delusion, their errors are 
seldom seen till they are felt ; each man is himself 
the tyrant he has obeyed, and such a master he 
can easily forgive. The disadvantages he feels 
may in reality be equal to what is felt in the most 
despotic government; but man will bear every 
calamity with patience, when he knows himself 
to be the author of his own misfortunes. Adieu. 



W LETTER CXXIL 

To the same. 

My long residence here begins t to fatigue me; as 
every object ceases to be new, it no longer con- 
tinues to be pleasing : some minds are so fond of 
variety, that pleasure itself, if permanent, would 
be insupportable, and we are thus obliged to 
solicit new happiness even by courting distress ; I 
only therefore wait the arrival of my son to vary 
this trifling scene, and borrow new pleasure from 
danger and fatigue. A life, I own, thus spent in 
wandering from place to place, is at best but 
empty dissipation. But to pursue trifles is the 
lot of humanity ; and whether we bustle in a pan- 
tomime, or strut at a coronation ; whether we 
shout at a bonfire, or harangue in a senate-house ; 
whatever object we follow, it will at last surely 
conduct us to futility and disappointment. The 
wise bustle and laugh as they walk in the pageant, 
but fools bustle and are important; and this pro- 
bably is all the difference between them. 

This may be an apology for the levity of my 
former correspondence ; I talked of trifles, and I 
knew that they were trifles ; to make the things 
of this life ridiculous, it is only sufficient to call 
them by their names. 

In other respects I have omitted several striking 
circumstances in the description of this country, 
as supposing them either already known to you, 
or as not being thoroughly known to myself; but 
there is one omission for which I expect no for- 
giveness, namely, my being totally silent upon 
their buildings, roads, rivers, and mountains. 
This is a branch of science on which all other 
travellers are so very prolix, that my deficiency 
will appear the more glaring. With what pleasure, 
for instance, do some read of a traveller in Egypt 
measxiring a fallen column with his cane, and 
finding it exactly five feet nine inches long; of 
his creeping through the mouth of a catacomb, 
and coming oat by a different hole from that he 
entered ; of his stealing the finger of an antique 
statue, in spite of the janizary that watched him; 
or his adding a new conjecture to the hundred 
and fourteen conjectures already published, upon 
the names of Osiris and Isis. 



128 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Methinks I hear some of my friends in China 
demanding a similar account of London and the 
adjacent villages, and if I remain here much 
longer, it is probable I may gratify their curiosity. 
I intend, when run dry on other topics, to make 
a serious survey of the city-wall ; to describe that 
beautiful building the Mansion-house; I will 
enumerate the magnificent squares in which the 
nobility chiefly reside, and the royal palace ap- 
pointed for the reception of the English monarch ; 
nor will I forget the beauties of Shoe-lane, in 
which I myself have resided since my arrival. 
You shall find me no way inferior to many of my 
brother travellers in the art of description. At 
present, however, as a specimen of this way of 
writing, I send you a few hasty remarks, collected 
in a late journey I made to Kentish- town, and this 
in the modern voyager's style. 

' Having heard much of Kentish-town, I con- 
ceived a strong desire to see that celebrated place. 
I could have wished, indeed, to satisfy my curi- 
osity without going thither; but that was imprac- 
ticable, and therefore I resolved to go. Travellers 
have two methods of going to Kentish-town ; they 
take coach, which costs nine-pence, or they nv 
go a-foot, which costs nothing; in my opinion!^, 
coach is by far the most eligible convenience; but 
I was resolved to go on foot, having considered 
with myself, that going in that manner would be 
the cheapest way. 

1 As you set out from Dog-house bar, you enter 
upon a fine level road, railed in on both sides, 
commanding on the right a fine prospect of groves 
and fields, enamelled with flowers which would 
wonderfully charm the sense of smelling, were it 
net for a dunghill on the left, which mixes its 
effluvia with their odours. This dunghill is of much 
greater antiquity than the road ; and I must not 
omit a piece of injustice I was just going to com- 
mit upon this occasion. My indignation was 
levelled against the makers of the dunghill for 
having brought it so near the road; whereas it 
should have fallen upon the makers of the road 
for having brought that so near the dunghill. 

1 After proceeding in this manner for some 
time, a building resembling somewhat a trium- 
phal arch, salutes the traveller's view. This, 
structure, however, is peculiar to this country, 
and vulgarly called a turn-pike gate : I could 
perceive a long inscription in large characters on 
the front, probably upon the occasion of some 
triumph; but being in haste, I left it to be made 
out by some subsequent adventurer, who may 
happen to travel this way; ' so continuing my 
course to the west, I soon arrived at an unwalled 
town called Islington. 

' Islington is a pretty neat town, mostly built 
of brick, with a church and bells : it has a small 
lake, or rather pond, in the midst; though at 
present very much neglected. I am told it is dry 
in summer ; if this be the case, it can be no very 
proper receptacle for fish, of which the inhabitants 
themselves seem sensible, by bringing all that is 
eaten there from London. 

■ After having surveyed the curiosities of this 
fair and beautiful town, I proceeded forward, 
leaving a fair stone building, called the White 
Conduit House, on my right; here the inhabitants 
of London often assemble to celebrate a feast of 
hot rolls and butter ; seeing such numbers, each 
with their little tables before them, employed on 
this occasion, must no doubt be a very amusing 



sight to the looker on, but still more so to those 
who perform in the solemnity. 

' From hence I parted with reluctance to Pan- 
eras, as it is written, or Pancridge as it is pro- 
nounced; but which should be both pronounced 
and written Pangrace. This emendation I will 
venture meo arbitrio ; Pan, in the Greek language, 
signifies all, which added to the English word 
grace, maketh all-grace, or pan-grace ; and indeed, 
this is a very proper appellation to a place of so 
much sanctity, as Pan-grace is universally es- 
teemed. However this may be, if you except the 
parish-church and its fine bells, there is little iri 
Pangrace worth the attention of the curious ob- 
server. 

' From Pangrace to Kentish-town is an easy 
journey of one mile and a quarter; the road lies 
through a fine champaign country, well watered 
with beautiful drains, and enamelled with flowers 
of all kinds, which might contribute to charm 
every sense, were it not that the odoriferous gales 
are often more impregnated with dust than per- 
fume. 

' As you enter Kentish-town, the eye is at once 
presented with the shops of artificers, such as 
venders of candles, small-coal, and hair-brooms; 
there are also several august buildings of red 
brick, with numberless sign-posts, or rather pil- 
lars, in a peculiar order of architecture; 1 send 
you a drawing of several, vide A. B. C. This 
pretty town probably borrows its name from its 
vicinity to the county of Kent ; and indeed it is 
not unnatural that it should, as there are only 
London and the adjacent villages that lie between 
them. Be this at it will, perceiving night ap- 
proach, I made a hasty repast on roasted mutton, 
and a certain dried fruit called potatoes, resolving 
to protract my remarks upon my return : and this 
I would very willingly have done, but was pre- 
vented by a circumstance which in truth I had for 
some time foreseen; for night coming on, it was 
impossible to take a proper survey of the country, 
as I was obliged to return home in the dark. 
Adieu. 



LETTER CXXIII. 

To the same. 

After a variety of disappointments, my wishes 
are at length satisfied. My son, so long expected, 
s arrived, at once by his presence banishing my 
anxiety, and opening a new scene of unexpected 
pleasure. His improvements in mind and person 
have far surpassed even the sanguine expectations 
of a father. I left him a boy, but he is returned a 
man; pleasing in his person, hardened by travel, 
and polished by adversity. His disappointment 
in love, however, had infused an air of melancholy 
into his conversation, which seemed at intervals 
to interrupt our mutual satisfaction. I expected 
that this could find a cure only from time ; but 
fortune, as if willing to load us with her favours, 
has, in a moment, repaid every uneasiness with 
rapture. 

Two days after his arrival, the mau in black,, 
with his beautiful niece, came to congratulate us 
upon this pleasing occasion; but guess our sur- 
prise, when my friend's lovely kinswoman was 
found to be the very captive my son had rescued 



THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 



129 



from Persia, and who had been wrecked on the 
Wolga, and was carried by the Russian peasants 
to the port of Archangel. Were I to hold the pen 
of a novelist, I might be prolix in describing their 
feelings at so unexpected an interview; but you 
may conceive their joy, without my assistance; 
words were unable to express their transports, 
then how can words describe it ? 

When two young persons are sincerely enamoured 
of each other, nothing can give me such pleasure 
as seeing them married; whether I know the 
parties or not, I am happy at thus binding one 
link more in the universal chain. Nature has, in 
some measure, formed me for a match-maker, and 
given me a soul to sympahize with every mode 
of human felicity. I instantly, therefore, con- 
sulted the man in black, whether we might not 
crown their mutual wishes by marriage ; his soul 
seems formed of similar materials with mine; he 
instantly gave his consent, and the next day 
was appointed for the solemnization of their 
nuptials. 

All the acquaintances which I had made since 
my arrival were present at this gay solem- 
nity. The little beau was constituted master of 
the ceremonies, and his wife Mrs. Tibbs conducted 
the entertainment with proper decorum. The 
man in black, and the pawnbroker's widow, were 
very sprightly and tender upon this occasion. 
The widow was dressed up under the direction of 
Mrs. Tibbs; and as for her lover his face was set 
off by the assistance of a pig-tail wig, which was 
lent by the little beau, to fit him for making love 
with proper formality. The whole company easily 
perceived, that it would be a double wedding 
before all was over and indeed my friend and the 
widow seemed to make no secret of their passion ; 
he even called me aside, in order to know my can- 
did opinion, whether I did not think him a little 
too old to be married. ' As for my own part,' con- 
tinued he, ' I know I am going to play the fool, 
but all my friends will praise my wisdom, and 
produce me as the very pattern of discretion to 
others.' 

At dinner, every thing seemed to run on with 
good humour, harmony, and satisfaction. Every 
creature in company thought themselves pretty, 
and every jest was laughed at ; the man in black 
sat next his mistress, helped her plate, chimed 
her glass, and jogging her knees and her elbow, 
he whispered something arch in her ear, on which 
she patted his cheek; never was antiquated pas- 
sion so playful, so harmless, and amusing, as 
between this reverend couple. 

The second course was now called for, and 
among a variety of other dishes, a fine turkey was 
placed before the widow. The Europeans, you 
know, carve as they eat; my friend, therefore, 
begged his mistress to help him to a part of the 
turkey. The widow, pleased with an opportunity 
of showing her skill in carving, an art, upon 
which, it seems, she piqued herself, began to cut 
it up by first taking off the leg. ' Madam,' cries 
my friend, ' if I may be permitted to advise, I 
would begin by first cutting off the wing, and then 
the leg will come off more easily.' — ' Sir,' replies 
the widow, ' give me leave to understand cutting 
up a fowl, I always begin with the leg.' — ' Yes, 
madam,' replies the lover, ' but if the wing be the 
most convenient manner, I would begin with the 
wing.'—' Sir,' interrupts the lady, ' when you have 
fowls of your own, begin with the wing if you 



please; but give me leave to take off the leg. I 
hope I am not to be taught at this time of the 
day.' — ' Madam,' interrupts he, ' we are never too 
old to be instructed.' — ' Old, sir !' interrupts the 
other, ' who is old, sir? when I die of age, I know 
some that will quake for fear ; if the leg does not 
come off, take the turkey to yourself.'—' Madam, 
replies the man in black, ' I don't care a farthing 
whether the leg or the wing comes off; if you are 
for the leg first, why you shall have the argument, 
even though it be as I say.'—' As for the matter 
of that,' cries the widow, 'I don't care a fig 
whether you are for the leg off or on ; and friend, 
for the future keep your distance.' — ' O,' replied 
the other, ' that is easily done, it is only moving 
to the other end of the table; and so, madam, 
your most obedient humble servant.' 

Thus was this courtship of an age destroyed in 
one moment; for this dialogue effectually broke 
off the match between this respectable couple 
that had been but just concluded. The smallest 
accidents disappoint the most important treaties. 
However, though it in some measure interrupted 
the general satisfaction, it no ways lessened the 
happiness of the youthful couple; and by the 
young lady's looks, I could perceive she was not 
entirely displeased with this interruption. 

In a few hours the whole transaction seemed 
entirely forgotten, and we have all since enjoyed 
those satisfactions which result from a conscious- 
ness of making each other happy. My son and 
his fair partner are fixed here for life ; the man 
in black has given them up a small estate in the 
country, which, added to what I was able to 
bestow, will be capable of supplying all the real, 
but not the fictitious demands of happiness. As 
for myself, the world being but one city to me, I 
do not much care in which of the streets I happen 
to reside ; I shall therefore spend the remainder 
of my life in examining the manners of the dif- 
ferent countries, and have prevailed upon the man 
in black to be my companion. ' They must often 
change,' says Confucius, 'who would be constant 
in happiness or wisdom.' Adieu. 



THE VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. 



CHAPTER I. 

The description of the family of "Wakefield, in which a kin 
dred likeness prevails, as well of minds as of persons. 

I was ever of opinion that the honest man, who 
married and brought up a large family, did more 
service than he who continued single, and only 
talked of population. From this motive, I had 
scarce taken orders a year, before I began to think 
seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she 
did her wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy sur- 
face, but such qualities as would wear well. To 
do her justice, she was a good-natured notable 
woman ; and as for breeding, there were few 
country ladies who could show more. She coula 
read any English book without much spelling; 
Dut for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none 
could excefeher. She prided herself also upon being 
an excellent contriver in house-keeping ; though 
I could never find that we grew richer with all her 
contrivances. 

However, we loved each other tenderly, and our 
fondness increased as we grew old. There was in 
fact nothing that could make us angry with the 
world or each other. We had an elegant house 
situated in a fine country, and a good neighbour, 
hood. The year was spent in moral or rural 
amusements ; in visiting our rich neighbours, and 
relieving such as were poor. We had no revolu- 
tions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our 
adventures were by the fire-side, and all our 
migrations from the blue bed to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the 
traveller or stranger to visit us to taste our goose- 
berry wine, for which we had great reputation ; 
and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, 
that I never knew one of them find fault with it 
Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all 
remembered their affinity, without any help from 
the herald's office, and came very frequently to see 
us. Some of them did us no great honour by 
these claims of kindred; as we had the blind, the 
maimed, and the halt, amongst the number. 
However, my wife always insisted, that as they 
were the same flesh and blood, they should sit 
with us at the same table. So that if we had not 
very rich, we generally had very happy friends 
about us ; for this remark will hold good through 
life, that the poorer the guest the better pleased 
he ever is with being treated: and as some men 
gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or 
the wing of a butter fly, so, I was by nature an 
admirer of happy human faces. However, when 
any one of our relations was found to be a person of 
very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we 
desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I 
ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair 
of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, and I 
always had the satisfaction to find he never came 
back to return them. By this the house was cleared 
of such as we did not like ; but never was the family 
of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or poor 
dependent out of doors. 



Thus we lived several years in a state of much 
happiness, not but that sometimes we had those 
little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the 
value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed 
by school-boys, and my wife's custards plundered 
by the cats or the children. The squire would 
sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of 
my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities 
at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon 
got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, 
and usually in three or four clays began to wonder 
how they vexed us. 

My children, the offspring of temperance, as 
they were educated without softness, so they were 
at once well formed and healthy ; my sons hardy 
and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. 
When I stood in the midst of the little circle, 
which promised to be the support of my declining 
age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story 
of Count Abensburg, who, in Henry II. 's progress 
through Germany, while other courtiers came with 
their treasures, brought his thirty-two children, 
and presented them to his sovereign as the most 
valuable offering he had to bestow. In this man- 
ner, though I had but six, I considered them as a 
very valuable present made to my country, and 
consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our 
eldest son was named George after his uncle, who 
left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a 
girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grisel ; but 
my wife, who during her pregnancy had been 
reading romances, insisted upon her being called 
Olivia. In less than another year we had another 
daughter, and now I was determined that Grisel 
should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a 
fancy to stand godmother, the girl was by her 
directions called Sophia ; so that we had two 
romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly pro- 
test I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and 
after an interval of twelve years, we had two sons 
more. 

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation 
when I saw my little ones about me ; but the 
vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even 
greater than mine. When our visitors would say, 
' Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have 
the finest children in the whole country.' — ' Ay, 
neighbour,' she would answer, ' they are as Heaven 
made them, handsome enough, if they be good 
enough ; for handsome is, that handsome does.' 
And then she would bid the girls hold up their 
heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly 
very handsome. Mere outside is so very ■ trifling 
a circumstance with me, that I should scarce have 
remembered to mention it, had it not been a gene- 
ral topic of conversation in the country. Olivia, 
now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty 
with which painters generally draw Hebe ; open, 
sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features 
were not so striking at first ; but often did more 
certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and 



1 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



131 



•alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, 
the other by efforts successively repeated. 

The temper of a woman is generally formed from 
the turn of her features, at least it was so with my 
daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers7~Sophia 
to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too 
great a desire to please. Sophia even repressed 
excellence, from her fears to offend. The one en- 
tertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, 
the other with her sense when I was serious. But 
these qualities were never carried to excess in 
either, and I have often seen them exchange 
characters for a whole day together. A suit of 
mourning has transformed my coquette into a 
prude, and a new set of ribands has given her 
younger sister more than natural vivacity. My 
eldest son George was bred at Oxford ; as I in- 
tended him for one of the learned professions. 
My second boy, Moses, whom I designed for busi- 
ness, received a sort of miscellaneous education at 
home. But it is needless to attempt describing 
the particular characters of 5'oung people that had 
Been but very little of the world. In short, a 
family likeness prevailed through all; and pro- 
perly speaking, they had but one character, that 
of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, 
and inoffensive. 



CHAPTER II. 

Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to in- 
crease the pride of the worthy. 

The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly 
committed to my wife's management ; as to the 
spiritual, I took them entirely under my own di- 
rection. The profits of my living, which amounted 
to about thirty -five pounds a year, I made over to 
the orphans and widows of the clergy of our dio- 
cese; for having a sufficient fortune of my own, 1 
was careless of temporalities, and felt a secret 
pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also 
set a resolration of keeping no curate, and of being 
acquainted with every man in the parish, exhort- 
ing the married men to temperance, and the ba- 
chelors to matrimony ; so that in a few years it 
was a common saying, that were three strange 
wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young 
men wanting wives, and alehouses wanting cus- 
tomers. 

Matrimony was always one of my favourite 
topics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its 
happiness ; but there was a peculiar tenet which 
I made a point of supporting ; for I maintained 
with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of 
the church of England, after the death of his first 
wife, to take a second; or to express it in one 
word, I valued myself upon being a strict mono- 
gamist. 

I was early initiated into this important dispute, 
on which so many laborious volumes have been 
written. I published some tracts upon this sub- 
ject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the 
consolation of thinking are read only by the happy 
feiv. Some of my friends called this my weak 
side ; but alas ! they had not, like me, made it the 
subject of long contemplation. The more I re- 
flected upon it, the more important it appeared. 
I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying 
my principles ; as he had engraven upon his wife's 
tomb that she was the only wife of William Whis- 



ton; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, 
though still living, in which I extolled her pru- 
dence, economy, and obedience, till death ; and 
having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it 
was placed over the chimney-piece, where it an- 
swered several very useful purposes. It admon- 
ished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity 
to her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, 
and constantly put her in mind of her end. 

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so 
often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon 
leaving college, fixed his affections upon the 
daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a 
dignitary in the church, and in circumstances to 
give her a large fortune : but fortune was her 
smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot 
was allowed by all (except my two daughters) to 
be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and 
innocence, were still heightened by a complexion 
so transparent, and such a happy sensibility of 
look, as even age could not gaze on with indiffer- 
ence. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a 
very handsome settlement on my son, he was not 
averse to the match ; so both families lived to- 
gether in all that harmony which generally pre- 
cedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by 
experience that the days of courtship are the most 
happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen 
the period ; and the various amusements which 
the young couple every day shared in each other's 
company seemed to increase their passion. We 
were generally awaked in the morning by music, 
and on fine days rode a hunting. The hours be- 
tween breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to 
dress and study; they usually read a page, and 
then gazed at themselves in the glass, which even 
pniiosophers might own often presented the page 
of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the 
lead : for, as she always insisted upon carving 
every thing herself, it being her mother's way, 
she gave us upon these occasions the history of 
every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the 
ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be 
removed ; and sometimes, with the music-master's 
assistance, the girls would give us a very agree- 
able concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country- 
dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, 
without the assistance of cards, as I hated all 
manner of gaming-except backgammon, at which 
my old friend and I sometimes took a two-penny 
hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circum- 
stance that happened the last time we played to- 
gether ; I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I 
threw deuce-ace five times running. 

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till 
at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for 
the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed ear- 
nestly to desire it. During the preparations for 
the wedding, I need not describe the busy import- 
ance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters; 
in fact, my attention was fixed on another object, 
the completing a tract which I intended shortly to 
publish in defence of my favourite principle. As 
I looked upon this as a master-piece both for ar- 
gument and style, I could not in the pride of my 
heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. "Wil- 
mot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approba- 
tion ; but not till too late I discovered that lie was 
most violently attached to the contrary opinion, 
and with good reason; for he was at that time 
actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be 
expected, produced a dismite attended with some 



!■; ' 



132 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our in- 
tended alliance: hut on the day hefore that ap- 
pointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the 
subject at large. 

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; 
he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the 
charge ; he replied, and I rejoined. In the mean 
time, while the controversy was hottest, I was 
called out by one of my relations, who, with a face 
of concern, advised me to giv» up the dispute, at 
least till my son's wedding was over. ' How,' 
cried I, ' relinquish the cause of truth, and let 
him be a husband, already driven to the very 
verge of absurdity. You might as well advise me 
to give up my fortune as my argument.' — ' Your 
fortune,' returned my friend, ' I am now sorry 
to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant 
in town, in whose hands your money was lodged, 
has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and 
is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. 
I was unwilling to shock you or the family with 
the account till after the wedding ; but now it 
may serve to moderate your warmth in the argu- 
ment ; for I suppose your own prudence will en- 
force the necessity of dissembling, at least till 
your son has the young lady's fortune secure.' — 
' Well,' returned I, ' if what you tell me be true, 
and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me 
a rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. 
I'll go this moment and inform the company of 
my circumstances ; and as for the argument, I 
even here retract my former concessions in the 
old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow him now 
to be a husband, in any sense of the expression.' 

It would be endless to describe the different 
sensations of both families, when I divulged the 
news of our misfortune; but what others lelt was 
slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. 
Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined 
to break off" the match, was by this blow soon de- 
termined ; one virtue he had in perfection, which 
was prudence ; too often the only one that is left 
us at seventy-two. 



CHAPTER III. 

A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are 
generally found at last to be of our own procuring. 

The only hope of our family now was, that the 
report of our misfortunes might be malicious or 
premature ; but a letter from my agent in town 
soon came with a confirmation of every particular. 
The loss of fortune to myself alone would have 
been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was for 
my family, who were to be humbled without an 
education to render them callous to contempt. 

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted 
to restrain their affliction ; for premature consola- 
tion is but .the remembrancer of sorrow. During 
this interval, my thoughts were employed on some 
future means of supporting them ; and at last a 
small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me 
in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still 
enjoy my principles without molestation. With 
this proposal I joyfully closed, having determined 
to increase my salary by managing a little farm. 

Having taken this resolution, my next care was 
to get together the wrecks of my fortune, and all 
debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand 
pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My 
fhief attention therefore, was now to bring down 



the pride of my family to their circumstances, for 
I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness 
itself. ' You cannot be ignorant, my children,' 
cried I, 'that no prudence of ours could have pre- 
vented our late misfortune; but prudence may do 
much in disappointing its effects. We are now 
poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform 
to our humble situation. Let us then without re- 
pining, give up those splendours with which num^ 
bers are wretched, and seek, in humbler circum- 
stances, that peace with which all may be happy. 
The poor live pleasantly without our help ; why, 
then, should we not learn to live without theirs 1 
No, my children, let us from this moment give up 
all pretensions to gentility ; we have still enough 
left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw 
upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. 

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I deter- 
mined to send him to town, where his abilities 
might contribute to our support and his own. 
The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, 
one of the most distressful circumstances attend- 
ant on penury. The day soon arrived on which 
we were to disperse for the first time. My son, 
after taking leave of his mother and the rest, 
Avho mingled their tears with their kisses, came to 
ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from 
my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was 
all the patrimony I had to bestow. 'You are 
going, my boy,' cried I ; ' to London on foot, in the 
manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled 
there before you. Take from me the same horse 
that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, 
this staff; and take this book too, it will be your 
comfort on the way ; these two lines in it are worth 
a million ; ' I have been young, and now am old ; 
yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, nor 
his seed begging their bread.' Let this be youi 
consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy ; what- 
ever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a year ; 
still keeping a good heart, and farewell.' As he 
was possessed of integrity and honour, I was undei 
no apprehensions from throwing him naked intc 
the amphitheatre of life ; for I knew he would aci 
a good part, whether vanquished or victorious. 

His departure only prepared the way for our 
»wn, which took place a few days afterwards. 
The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had en- 
joyed so many hours of tranquillity, was not with- 
out a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could sup- 
press. Besides a journey of seventy miles, to a 
family that had hitherto never been above ten 
from home, filled us with apprehension, and the 
cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, 
contributed to increase it. The first day's journey 
brought us in safety within thirty miles of my 
future retreat, and we put up for the night at an 
obscure. inn in a village by the way. When we 
were shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my 
usual way, to let us have his company, with which 
he complied, as what he drank would increase 
the bill next morning. He knew, however, the 
whole neighbourhood to which I was removing, 
particularly squire Thornhiil, who was to be my 
landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the 
place. This. gentleman he described as one who 
desired to know little more of the world than its 
pleasures, being particularly remarkable for his 
attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no 
virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, 
and that scarce a farmer's daughter within ten 
miles round but what had found him successful 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



133 



and faithless. Though this account gave me some 
pain, it had a very different effect upon my daugh- 
ters, whose features seemed to brighten with the 
expectation of an approaching triumph ; nor was 
my wife less pleased and confident of their allure- 
ments and virtue. While our thoughts were thus 
employed, the hostess entered the room to inform 
her husband, that the strange gentleman, who 
had been two days in the house, wanted money, 
and could not satisfy them for his reckoning. 
« Want money !' replied the host, ' that must be 
impossible ; for it was no later than yesterday he 
paid three guiueas to our beadle, to spare an old 
broken soldier that was to be whipped through 
the town for dog-stealing.' The hostess, how- 
ever, persisting in her first assertion, he was pre 
paring to leave the room, swearing that he would 
be satisfied one way or another, when I begged 
the landlord would introduce me to a stranger ot 
so much charity as he described. With this he 
complied, showing in a gentlemen who seemed to 
be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were 
laced. His person was well formed, and his face 
marked with the lines of thinking. He had some- 
thing short and dry in his address, and seemed 
not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon 
the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid 
expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing 
a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered 
him my purse to satisfy the present demand. 
'I take it with all my heart, sir,' replied he, 'and 
I am glad that a late oversight in giving what 
money I had about me, has shown me, that there 
are still some men like you. I must, however, 
previously entreat being informed of the name 
and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay 
him as soon as possible.' In this I satisfied him 
fully, not only mentioning my name and late mis- 
fortunes, but the place to which I was going to re 
move. ' This,' cried he, ' happens still more luckily 
than I hoped for, as 1 am going the same way my- 
self, having been detained here two days by the 
floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow will be found 
passable.' I testified the pleasure I should have 
in his company, and my wife and daughters join- 
ing in the entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay 
to supper. The stranger's conversation, which 
was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me 
to wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now 
high time to retire, and take refreshment against 
the fatigues of the following day. 

The next morning we all set forward together ; 
my family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our 
new companion, walked along the footpath by the 
road side, observing, with a smile, that as we 
were ill mounted, he would be too generous to at- 
tempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not 
yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, whc 
trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up 
the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road 
with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to 
understand perfectly. But what surprised me 
most was, that though he was a money borrower, 
he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy 
as if he had been my patron. He now and then 
also informed me to whom the different seats be- 
longed that lay in our view as we travelled the 
load. ' That,' cried he, pointing to a very magni- 
ficent house which stood at some distance, ' be- 
longs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who 
enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent 
on the will of his uncle, sir William Thornhill, a 



gentleman who, content with a little himself, per- 
mits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides 
in town.'—' What !' cried I, ' is my young land- 
lord then the nephew of a man whose virtues, gene- 
rosity, and singularities are so universally known ? 
I have heard sir William Thornhill represented 
as one of the most generous, yet whimsical men in 
the kingdom; a man of consummate benevo- 
lence.' — ' Some think, perhaps, too much so,' re- 
plied Mr. Burchell, ' at least he carried benevo- 
lence to an excess when young ; for his passions 
were then strong, and as they were all upon the 
side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. 
He early began to aim at the qualifications of the 
soldier and scholar; was soon distinguished in 
the army, and had some reputation among men of 
»earning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious; 
for such alone receive the most pleasure from flat- 
tery. He was surrounded with crowds, who 
showed him only one side of their character ; so 
that he began to lose a regard for private interest 
in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; 
for fortune prevented him from knowing that 
there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disor- 
der in which the whole body is so exquisitely sen- 
sible that the slightest touch gives pain: what 
some have thus suffered in their persons, this gen- 
tleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, 
whether real or fictitious, touched him to the 
quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sen- 
sibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed 
to relieve, it will be easily conjectured, he found 
numbers disposed to solicit ; his profusions began 
to impair his fortune, but not his good -nature; 
that, indeed, seemed to increase as the other 
seemed to decay ; he grew improvident as he 
grew poor ; and though he talked like a man ol 
sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, how- 
ever, being surrounded with importunity, and no 
longer able to satisfy every request that was made 
him, instead of money he gave promises. Thev 
were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolu- 
tion enough to give any man pain by a denial. 
By this he drew round him crowds of dependents 
whom he was sure to disappoint ; yet wished to 
relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and 
left him with merited reproaches and contempt. 
But in proportion as he became contemptible to 
others, he became despicable to himself. His 
mind had leaned upon their adulation, andthrt 
support taken away, he could find no pleasure in 
the applause of his heart, which he had never 
learned to reverence. The world now began to 
wear a different aspect ; the flattery of his friends 
began to dwindle into simple approbation. Ap- 
probation soon took the more friendly form of ad- 
vice ; and advice, when rejected, produced their 
reproaches. He now, therefore, found that such 
friends as benefits had gathered round him, were 
little estimable ; he now found that a man's own 
heart must be ever given to gain that of another. 
I now found, that— that— I forget what I was go- 
ing to observe : in short, sir, he resolved to re- 
spect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring 
his fallen fortune. For this purpose, in his own 
whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe 
on foot, and now, though he has scarce attained 
the age of thirty, his circumstances are more af- 
fluent than ever. At present his bounties are 
more rational and moderate than before, but still 
he preserves the character of a humourist, and 
finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues.' 



134 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



My attention was so much taken up by Mr. 
Burchell's account, that I scarce looked forward 
as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries 
of my family: when turning, I perceived my 
youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, 
thrown from her horse, and struggling with the 
torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my 
power to disengage myself in time to bring her re 
lief. My sensations were even too violent to per- 
mit my attempting her rescue : she must have 
certainly perished, had not my companion, per- 
ceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her 
relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in 
safety to the opposite shore. By taking the cur- 
rent a little farther up, the rest of the family got 
safely over; where we had an opportunity of 
joining our acknowledgments to her's. Her gra- 
titude may be more easily imagined than de- 
scribed ; she thanked her deliverer more with 
looks than words, and continued to lean upon his 
arm, as if still willing to receive assistance. My 
wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of 
returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, 
after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had 
dined together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a 
different part of the country, he took leave; and 
we pursued our journey, my wife observing, as 
we went, that she liked him extremely, and pro 
testing, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle 
him to match into such a family as our's, she 
knew no man she would sooner fix upon, j 
could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty 
strain; but I was never much displeased with 
those harmless delusions that tend to make us 
more happy. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant hap- 
piness, which depends not on circumstances but con- 
stitution. 

The place of our retreat was in a little neigh- 
bourhood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their 
own grounds, and were equal strangers to opu- 
lence and poverty. As they had almost all the 
conveniences of life within themselves, they sel- 
dom visited towns or cities in search of superflui- 
ties. Remote from the polite, they still retained 
the primeval simplicity of manners ; and frugal 
by habit, they scarce knew that temperance was a 
virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days 
of labour; but observed festivals as intervals of 
idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas 
carol, sent true-love knots on Valentine morning, 
eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, showed their wit on 
the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on 
Michaelmas-eve. Being apprised of our approach, 
the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their 
minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and pre- 
ceded by a pipe and tabor ; a feast was also pro- 
vided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully 
down ; and what the conversation wanted in wit 
was made up in laughter. 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a 
sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood 
behind, and a prattling river before : on one side 
a meadow, on the other a green. My farm con- 
sisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, 
having given a hundred pounds for my predeces- 
sor s good will. Nothing could exceed the neat- 
ness of my little enclosures, the elms and hedge- 



rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My 
house consisted of but one story, and was covered 
with thatch, which gave it an air of great snug- 
ness ; the walls on the inside were nicely white- 
washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn 
them with pictures of their own designing. Though, 
the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, 
that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was- 
kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, 
and coppers, being well scoured, and all disposed 
in rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably re- 
lieved, and did not want richer furniture. There 
were three other apartments, one for my wife and 
me, another for our two daughters, within our 
own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of 
the children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws, wa* 
regulated in the following manner. By sun-rise 
we all assembled in 'our common apartment, the 
fire being previously kindled by the servant ; after 
we had saluted each other with proper ceremony, 
for I always thought fit to keep up some mechani- 
cal forms of good breeding, without which freedom 
ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude 
to that Being who gave us another day. This- 
duty being performed, my son and I went to pur- 
sue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and 
daughters employed themselves in providing 
breakfast, which was always ready at a certain 
time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an 
hour for dinner ; which time was taken up in inno- 
cent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in 
philosophical arguments between my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued 
our labour after it was gone down, but returned 
home to the expecting family ; where smiling 
looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire, were pre- 
pared for our reception. Nor were we without 
guests ; sometimes farmer Flamborough, our 
talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, 
would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry 
wine ; for the making of which we had lost neither 
the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless- 
people had several ways of being good company ;: 
for while one played, the other would sing some 
soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good- 
night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night 
was concluded in the manner we began the morn- 
ing, my youngest boys being appointed to read the 
lessons of the day, and he that read loudest, dis- 
tinctest, and best, was to have a halfpenny or* 
Sunday to put into the poor's box. 

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day'of. 
finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not 
restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures 
against pride had conquered the vanity of my 
daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached 
to all their former finery, they still loved laces, 
ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife herself re- 
tained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because 
I formerly happened to say it became her. 

The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour 
served to mortify me ; I had desired my girls the 
preceding night to be dressed early the next day j 
for I always loved to be at church a good while 
before the rest of the congregation. They punctu- 
ally obeyed my directions ; but when we were t» 
assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came 
my wife and daughters, dressed out in all their 
former splendour ; their hair plaistered up with 
pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains 
bundled up into a heap behind, and rustling at 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



135 



every motion. I coma not help smiling at tlieii 
vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I 
expected more discretion. In this exigence, there- 
fore, my only resource was to order my son, with 
an important air, to call our coach. — The girls 
were amazed at the command ; but I repeated it 
with more solemnity than before. ' Surely, my 
dear, you jest,' cried my wife, ' we can walk it 
perfectly well ; we want no coach to carry us now.' 
— ' You mistake child,' returned I, ' we do want a 
coach ; for if we walk to church in this trim, the 
very children in the parish will hoot after us.' — 
' Indeed,' replied my wife, ' I always imagined 
that my Charles was fond of seeing his children 
neat and handsome about him.' — ' You may be as 
neat as you please,' interrupted I, ' and I shall love 
you the better for it ; but all this is not neatness 
but frippery. These rufiiings, and pinkings, ana 
patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives 
of our neighbours. No, my children,' continued I, 
more gravely, ' those gowns may be altered into 
something of a plainer cut ; for finery is very un- 
becoming in us, who want the means of decency. 
I do not know whether such flouncing and shred- 
ding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, 
upon a moderate calculation^ that the nakedness 
of the indigent world may be clothed from the 
trimmings of the vain.' 

This remonstrance had the proper effect; they 
went with great composure, that very instant, to 
change their dress ; and the next day I had the 
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own 
request, employed in cutting up their trains into 
Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little 
ones; and what was still more satisfactory, the 
gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. 

CHAPTER V. 

A new and great acquaintance introduced. What we place 
most hopes upon generally proves most fatal. 

At a small distance from the house my prede- 
cessor had made a seat, overshaded by a hedge of 
hawthorn and honey-suckle. Here, when the 
weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we 
usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive land- 
scape, in the calm of the evening. Here too we 
drank tea, which now was become an occasional 
banquet ; and as we had it but seldom, it diffused 
a new joy, the preparations for it being made with 
no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these 
occasions, our two little ones always read for us, 
and they were regularly served after we had done. 
Sometimes, to give a variety to our amnsement, 
the girls sung to the guitar ; and while they thus 
formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll 
down the sloping field, that was embellished with 
blue bells and centaury, talk of our children with 
rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both 
health and harmony. 

In this manner we began to find that every situ- 
ation in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures ; 
every morning waked us to a repetition of toil ; 
but the evening amply repaid it with vacant 
hilarity. 

It was about the beginning of autumn, on a ho- 
liday, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation 
from labour, that I had drawn* out my family to 
our usual place of amusement, and our young 
musicians began their usual concert. As we were 
thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by» 



within about twenty paces of where we weresit- 
ting, and, by its panting, seemed pressed by the 
hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon 
the poor animal's distress, when we perceived the 
dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some 
distance behind, and making the very path it had 
taken. I was instantly for returning in with my 
family ; but either curiosity or surprise, or some 
more hidden motive, held my wife and daughters 
to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, 
passed us with great swiftness, followed by four or 
five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At 
last, a young gentleman of a more genteel appear- 
ance than the rest, came forward, and for a while 
regarding us, instead of pursuing the chace, stop- 
ped short, and giving his horse to a servant who 
attended, approached us with a careless superior 
air. He seemed to want no introduction, but was 
going to salute my daughters as one certain of a 
kind reception; but they had early learned the 
lesson of looking presumption out of countenance. 
Upon which he let us know that his name was 
Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate 
that lay for some extent round us. He again, 
therefore, offered to salute the female part of the 
family ; and such was the power of fortune and 
fine cloths, that he found no second repulse. As 
his address, though confident, was easy, we soon 
became more familiar; and perceiving musical 
instruments lying near, he begged to be favoured 
with a song. As I did not approve of such dispro- 
portioned acquaintance, I winked upon my daugh- 
ters, in order to prevent their compliance : but my 
hint was counteracted by one from their mother: 
so that with a cheerful air they gave us a favourite 
song of Dry den's. Mr. Thornhill seemed highly 
delighted with their performance and choice, an(i 
then took up the guitar himself. He played buif 
very indifferently; however, my eldest daughter 
repaid his former applause with interest, and as- 
sured him that his tones were louder than even 
those of her master. At this compliment he bow- 
ed, which she returned with a curtsey. He praised 
her taste, and she commended his understanding : 
an age could not have made them better acquainted. 
While the fond mother, too, equally happy, in- 
sisted upon her landlord's stepping in, and tast- 
ing a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family 
seemed earnest to please him ; my girls attempted 
to entertain him with topics they thought most 
modern ; while Moses, on the contrary, gave him 
a question or two from the ancients, for which he 
had the satisfaction of being laughed at ; my little 
ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to 
the stranger. . All my endeavours could scarce 
keep their dirty fingers from handling and tarnish- 
ing the lace on his clothes, and lifting up the flaps 
of his pocket holes, to see what was there. At the 
approach of evening he took leave ; but not till he 
had requested permission to renew his visit, which, 
as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to. 
As soon as he was gone, my wife called a coun- 
cil on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion 
that it was a most fortunate hit ; for she had 
known even stranger things than that brought to 
bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we 
might hold up our heads with the best of them ; 
and concluded, she protested she coula see no rea- 
son why the two Miss Wrinkles should marry 
great fortunes, and her children get none. As this 
last argument was directed to me, I protested I 
could see no reason for it neither _nor why Mr 



136 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANKoVS WORKS. 



Simpkins got the ten thousand pounds prize in the 
lottery, and we sat down with a blank. ' I pro- 
test, Charles,' cried my wife, ' this is the way you 
always damp my girls and me when we are in 
spirits. — Tell me Sophy, my dear, what do you 
think of our new visitor ? Don't you think he 
seemed to be good-natured!'—' Immensely so 
indeed, mamma,' replied she, ' I think he has a 
great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at 
a loss ; and the more trifling the subject, the more 
he has to say.' — ' Yes,' cried Olivia, ' he is well 
enough for a man ; but for my part, I don't much 
like him, he is so extremely impudent and fami- 
liar; but on the guitar he is shocking.' These 
two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I 
found by this that Sophia internally despised, as 
much as Olivia secretly admired him. ' Whatever 
may be your opinions of him, my children.' cried 
I, ' to confess a truth, he has not prepossessed me 
in his favour. Disproportioned friendships ever 
terminate in disgust; and I thought, notwith- 
standing all his ease, that he seemed perfectly 
sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep 
to companions of our own rank. There is no 
character more contemptible than a man that is a 
fortune hunter! and I can see no reason why for- 
tune-hunting in women should not be contemptible 
too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if 
his views are honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! 
I should shudder but to think of that ! It is true, 
I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my 
children, but I think there are some from his 
character.' I would have proceeded, but for the 
interruption of a servant from the squire, who, 
with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, 
and a promise to dine with us some days after. 
This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully 
in his favour than any thing I had to say could 
obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied 
with just having pointed out danger, and leaving 
to their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue 
which requires to be ever guarded, is scarce worth 
the ce.ntinel. 



CHAPTERVI. 

The happiness of a country fire-side . 

As we carried on the former dispute with some 
degree of wamth, in order to accomodate matters, 
it was universally agreed, that we should have a 
part of the venison for supper, and the girls under- 
took the task with alacrity. ' I am sorry,' cried I, 
' that we have no neighbour or stranger to take 
part in this good cheer ; feasts of this kind acquire 
I a double relish from hospitality.' — 'Bless me,' 
cried my wife, ' here comes our good friend Mr. 
i Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that ran you 
down .fairly in the argument.' — ' Confute me in 
argument, child !' cried I, ' you mistake there, my 
| dear. I believe there are but few that can do 
that ; I never dispute your abilities at making 
a goose-pie, and I beg you'll leave argument to 
j me.' As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the 
house, and was welcomed by the family, who 
shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick 
; officiously reached him a chair. 

I was pleased with the poor man's friendship 
I for two reasons ; b'ecause I knew that he wanted 
: mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he 
1 was able. He was known in our neighbourhood 
I by the character of the poor gentleman that would 



do no good when he was young though he was not 
yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great 
good sense ; but in general he was fondest of the 
company of children, whom he used to call harm- 
less little men. He was famous, I found, for 
singing them ballads, and telling them stories; 
and seldom went out without something in his 
pockets for them, a piece of gingerbread, or a 
halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few 
days into our neighbourhood once a year, and 
lived upon the neighbours' hospitality. He sat 
down to supper among us, and my wife was not 
sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went 
round; he sung us old songs, and gave the chil- 
dren the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the 
history of Patient Grizzel, the adventures of Cat- 
skin, and then Fair Rosamond's bower. Our cock, 
which always crew at eleven, now told us it was 
time for repose ; but an unforseen difficulty started 
about lodging the stranger; all our beds were al- 
ready taken up, and it was too late to send him to 
the next alehouse. In this dilemma, little Dick 
offered him his part of the bed, if his brother 
Moses would let him lie with him. 'And I, 
cried Bill, 'will give Mr. Burchell my part, if my 
sisters will take me to theirs.' — ' Well done, my 
good children,' cried 1, ' hospitality is one of the 
first christian duties. The beast retires to his 
shelter, and the bird to its nest, but helpless man 
can only find refuge from his fellow-creature. The 
greatest stranger in this world was he that came 
to save it. He never had a house, as if willing to 
see what hospitality was left remaining amongst 
us. — Deborah, my dear,' cried I to my wife, ' give 
tho«e boys a lump of sugar each; and let Dick's 
be the largest, because he spoke first.' 

In the morning early I called out my wnole 
family to help at saving an after-growth of hay, 
and our guest offering his assistance, he was ac- 
cepted among the number. Our labours went on 
lightly, we turned the swath to the wind, I went 
foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. 
I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity 
of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in 
her part of the task. When he had finished his 
own, he would join in her's, and enter into a close 
conversation ; but I had too good an opinion of 
Sophia's understanding, and was too well con- 
vinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness 
from a man of broken fortune. When we were 
finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as 
on the night before ; but he refused, as he was to 
lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child he 
was carrying a whistle. When gone, our conver- 
sation turned upon our late unfortunate guest. 
' What a strong instance,' cried I, ' is that poor 
man of the miseries attending a youth of levity 
and extravagance ! He by no means wants sense, 
which only serves to aggravate his former folly. 
Poor forlorn creature ! where are now the revel- 
lers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire, and 
command! gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio 
pander grown rich by his extravagance. They 
once praised him, and now they applaud the pan- 
der; their former raptures at his wit are now 
converted into sarcasms at his folly ; he is poor, 
and perhaps deserves poverty ; for he has neither 
the ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be 
useful.' Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, 
I delivered this observation with too much acri- 
mony, which my Sophia gently reproved. ' What- 
soever his former conduct may be, papa, his 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



J37 



circumstances should exempt him from censure 
now. His present indigence is a sufficient punish- 
ment for former folly; and I have heard my papa 
himself say, that we should never strike one un- 
necessary blow at a victim over whom Providence 
holds the scourge of its resentment.' — ' You are 
right, Sophia,' cried my son Moses, ' and one of 
the ancients finely represents so malicious a con 
duct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas 
whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly 
stript off by another. Besides, I don't know if 
this poor man's situation be so bad as my father 
would represent it. We are not to judge of the 
feelings of others by what we might feel if in their 
place. However dark the habitation of the mole 
to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apart- 
ment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess the 
truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station; 
for I never heard any one more sprightly than he 
was to-day, when he conversed with you.' This 
was said without the least design ; however, it ex- 
cited a blush, which she strove to cover by an 
affected laugh ; assuring him, that she scarce took 
any notice of what he said to her; but that she 
believed he might once have been a very fine gen- 
tleman. The readiness with which she undertook, 
to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symp- 
toms which I did not internally approve ; but I 
represt my suspicions. 

As we expected our landlord the next day, my 
wife went to make the venison pasty ; Moses sat 
reading, while I taught my little ones; my (laugh- 
ters seemed equally busy with the rest; and i 
observed them for a good while cooking some- 
thing over the fire. 1 at first supposed they were 
assisting their mother; but little Dick informed 
me in a whisper, that they were making a wash 
for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural 
antipathy to ; for I knew instead of mending the 
complexion they spoiled it. I therefore approached 
my chair by slow degrees to the fire, and grasping 
the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by 
accident, overturned the -whole composition, and 
it was too late to begin another. 



CHAPTER VII. 

A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to 
be comical for a night or two. 

When the morning arrived on which we were 
to entertain our young landlord, it may be easily 
supposed what provisions were exhausted to make 
an appearance. It may be also conjectured that 
my wife and daughters expanded their gayest 
plumage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came 
with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. 
The servants, who were numerous, he politely 
ordered to the next alehouse ; but my wife, in the 
triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining 
them all ; for which, by the bye, our family was 
pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell 
had hinted to us the day before, that he was 
making proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, 
my son George's former mistress, this a good deal 
damped the heartiness of his reception ; but acci- 
dent, in some measure, relieved our embarrass- 
ment ; for one of the company happening to men- 
tion her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an 
oath, that he never knew any thing more absurd 
than calling such a fright a beauty ; * For strike 
me ugly,' continued he, ' if I should not find as 



much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the 
information of a lamp under the clock at St. Dun- 
stan's.' At this he laughed, and so did Ave : — the 
jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia too 
could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be 
heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. 

After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the 
church ; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, 
as he said the church was the only mistress of his 
affections. ' Come, tell us honestly, Frank,' said 
the squire, with his usual archness, ' suppose the 
church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn 
sleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn 
about her, on the other ; which would you be for V 
— ' For both to be sure,' cried the chaplain.' ' Right, 
Frank,' cried the squire; 'for may this glass 
suffocate me, but a fine girl is worth all the priest- 
craft in the creation. For what are tithes and 
tricks but an imposition, all a confounded impos- 
ture, and I can prove it.' — 'I wish you would, 
cried my son Moses, ' and I think,' continued he. 
'that I should be able to answer you.' — 'Very 
well, Sir,' cried the squire, who immediately 
smoked him, and winked on the rest of the com 
pany, to prepare us for the sport, ' if you are for a 
cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to 
accept the challenge. And first, whether are you 
for managing it analogically, or dialogically?' — 
'lam for managing it rationally,' cried Moses, 
quite happy at being permitted to dispute. ' Good 
again,' cries the squire ; ' and firstly, of the first 
I hope you'll not deny that whatever is, is. If you 
don't grant me that, I can go no further.' — ' Why, 
returned Moses, ' I think I may grant that, and 
make the best of it,' — ' I hope too, returned the 
other, ' you will grant that a part is less than the 
whole.' ' I grant that too,' cried Moses, ' it is but 
just and reasonable.' — ' I hope,' cried the squire, 
' you will not deny, that the three angles of a tri- 
angle are equal to two right ones.' — ' Nothing can 
be plainer,' returned t'other; and looking round 
with his usual importance. ' Very well,' cried the 
squire, speaking very quick, ' the premises being 
thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the conca- 
tenation of self- existences, proceeding in a reci- 
procal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a pro- 
blematical dialogism, which in some measure 
proves that the essence of spirituality may be re- 
ferred to the second predicahle.' — ' Hold, hold, 
cried the other, ' 1 deny that. Do you think I can 
thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines V 
— ' What,' replied the squire, as if in a passion, 
' not submit ! Answer me one plain question : 
Do you think Aristotle right, when, he says rela- 
tives are related?' — '.Undoubtedly,' replied the 
other. ' If so, then,' cried the squire, ' answer 
me directly to what I propose : Whether do you 
judge the analytical investigation of the first part 
of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or 
quoad minus, and give me your reasons, I say, 
directly.' — ' I protest,' cried Moses, ' I don't 
rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning ; 
but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I 
fancy it may then have an answer.' — ' O, sir,' cried 
the squire, ' 1 am your most humble servant; I 
find you want me to furnish you with arguments 
and intellects too. No, sir, there I protest you 
are too hard for me.' This effectually raised the 
laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal 
figure in a group of merry faces ; nor did he offer 
a single syllable more during the whole entertain- 
ment. . 



138 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



But though all this gave me no pleasure, it nad 
a very different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it 
for humour, though but a mere act of the memory. 
She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman ; 
and such as consider what powerful ingredients a 
good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that 
character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with 
ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics 
of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising 
then that such talents should win the affections of 
a girl, who by education was taught to value an 
appearance in herself, and consequently to set a 
value upon it in another. 

Upon his departure, we again entered into a de- 
bate upon the merits of our young landlord. As 
he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, 
it was no longer doubted but that she wao the 
object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor 
did she seem to be much displeased at the inno- 
cent raillery of her brother and sister upon this 
occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share 
the glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter's 
victory as if it were her own. ' And now, my 
dear,' cried she to me, ' I'll fairly own, that it was 
I that instructed my girls to encourage our land- 
lord's addresses. I had ahvays some ambition, 
and you now see that I was right ; for who knows 
how this may end?'—' Aye, who knows that in- 
deed !' answered I, with a groan ; ' for my part I 
don't much like it ; and I could have been better 
pleased with one that was poor and honest, than 
this fine gentleman with his fine fortune and in- 
fidelity ; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect 
him, no free-thinker shall ever have a child of 
mine.' 

' Sure, father,' cried Moses, ' you are too severe 
in this : for Heaven will never arraign him for 
what he thinks, but for what he does. Every 
man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise 
without his power to suppress. Thinking freely 
of religion may be involuntary with this gentle- 
man ; so that allowing his sentiments to be wrong 
yet as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no 
more to be blamed for his errors, than the gover- 
nor of a city without walls for the shelter he is 
obliged to afford an invading enemy.' 

' True, my son,' cried I; ' but if the governor 
invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And 
such is always the case with those who embrace 
error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the 
proofs they see ; but in being blind to many of the 
proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous 
opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we 
have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in 
forming them, we deserve punishment for our 
vice, or contempt for our folly.' 

My wife now kept up the conversation, though 
not the argument : she observed, that several very 
prudent men of our acquaintance were free-think- 
ers, and made very good husbands ; and she knew 
some sensible girls that had skill enough to make 
converts of their spouses ; ' And who knows, my 
dear,' continued she, ' what Olivia may be able to 
do. The girl has a great deal to say upon every 
subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled 
in controversy.' 

• Why, my dear, what controversy can she have 
read V cried I. • It does not occur to me that I 
ever put such books into her hands ; you certainly 
overrate her merit.' — 'Indeed, papa,' replied 
Olivia, ' she does not : I have read a great deal of 



controversy. I have read the disputes between 
Thwackum and Square ; the controversy between 
Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and I an 
now employed in reading the controversy in Re- 
ligious Courtship.'—' Very well,' cried I, 'that's a 
good girl, I find you are perfectly qualified foj 
making converts, and so go help your mother to 
make the gooseberry-pie.' 



CHAPTER VIII. 

An amour which promises little good fortune, yet may ue 
productive of much. 

The next morning we were again visited by Mr. 
Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to 
be displeased with the frequency of his return ; 
but I could not refuse him my company and fire- 
side. It is true his labour more than requited his 
entertainment ; for he wrought among us with 
vigour, and either in the meadow or at the hay- 
rick put himself foremost. Besides, he had always 
something amusing to say that lessened our toil, 
and was at once so out of the way, and yet so 
sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. 
My only dislike arose from an attachment he dis- 
covered to my daughter ; he would, in a jesting 
manner, call her his little mistress, and when he 
bought each of the girls a set of ribands, hers was 
the finest. I knew not how, but he every day 
seemed to become more amiable, his wit to im- 
prove, and his simplicity to assume the superior 
airs of wisdom. 

Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or 
rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our 
cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell 
gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our 
satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other 
from opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came 
and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every 
sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. ' I 
never sit thus,' says Sophia, ' but I think of the 
two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who 
were struck dead in each other's arms. There is 
something so pathetic in the description, that I 
have read it a hundred times with new rapture.' — 
' In my opinion,' cried my son, ' the finest strokes 
in that description are much below those in the 
Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet un- 
derstands the use of contrast better, and upon that 
figure artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic 
depends.' — ' It is remarkable,' cried Mr. Burchell, 
' that both the poets you mention have equally 
contributed to introduce a false taste into their 
respective countries, by loading all their lines with 
epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily 
imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like 
that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at 
present but a combination of luxuriant images, 
without plot or connexion; a string of epithets 
that improve the sound, without carrying on the 
sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus repre- 
hend others, you'll think it just that I should give 
them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I 
have made this remark only to have an opportu- 
nity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, 
whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at lea»t 
free from those I have mentioned.' 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



139 



A BALL A T>: 

* Turn, gentle hermit o\ the dale. 

And guide my lonely way, 
To where yon taper cheers the Tale, 
With hospitable ray. 

« For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow ; 

Where wilds immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go.' 

* Forbear my son,' the hermit cries, 
• To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

' Here, to the houseless child of want, 

My door is open still : 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

* Then turn to-night, and freely share- 

Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 

* No flocks, that range the valley free, 
To slaughter I condemn ; 

Taught by that power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them. 

* But, from the mountain's grassy side, 
A guiltless feast I bring ; 

A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, 
And water from the spring. 

r Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
\ . All earth-born cares are wrong : 
\Man wants but little here below, 
\ Nor wants that little long.' 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends* 

His gentle accents fell ; 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay ; 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor. 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care ; 
The wicket, op'ning with a latch, 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their ev'ning rest ; 
The hermit trimm'd his little fire, 

And cheer'd his pensive guest. 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gaily press'd and smiled! % 

And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
The ling'ring hours beguiled. 

Around in sympathetic mirth 

Its tricks the kitten tries : 
The cricket chirrups in the hearth. 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger's woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 
And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spy'd, 
With answering care oppress'd t 

• And whence, unhappy youth,' he ery'd, 
■ The sorrows of thy breast ? 

'From better habitations spurn'd, 

Reluctant dost thou rove ; 
Or grieve for friendship unretum'tl, 
Oi unrequited love ? 



• Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling, and decay : 
And those who prize the paltry things, 
More trifling still than they. 

• And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep, 
A shade that follows wealth or fame; 
But leaves the wretch to weep ? 

'"And love is still and emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest : 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

• For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex,' he said ; 

But while he spoke a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 

Swift mantling to the view; 
Like colours o'er the morning skies,— 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms ; 
The lovely stranger stands confess'd 

A maid in all her charms. 

And ■ Ah, forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn,' she cried : 
, Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 

Where heaven and you reside : 

• But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray, — 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

■ My father lived beside the Tyne, 
A wealthy lord was he ; 

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine- 
He had but only me. 

4 To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 

And felt or feign'd a flame. 

' Each hour a mercenary crowd 

■With richest proffers strove : 
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, 

But never talk d of love. 

* In humble, simplest habit clad, 

No wealth nor power had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 

The blossom cp'ning to the day, 
The dews of heav'n refined, 
Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

; - The dew, the blossom on the tree, 

With charms inconstant shine ; 
Their charms were his, but, woe to va» 
Their constancy was mine. 

For still I try'd each fickle art, 
Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touched my heart, 
I triumph'd in his pain. 

1 Till quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

* But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 

And well my life shall pay : 

I'll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

* And there forlorn despairing hid* 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
And so for him will I.' 



140 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



• Forbid it, heaven !' the hermit cry'd, 
And clasp'd her to his breast ; 

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, 
'Twas Edwin's self that pre9s'd. 

♦Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restored to love and thee. 

« Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign ; 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life— my all that's mine t 

• No, never from this hour to part, 
We'll live and love so true ; 

The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
Shall break thy Edwin's too.* 



While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to 
mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. 
But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the 
report of a gun just by us, and immediately after 
a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to 
take up the game he had killed. This sportsman 
was the squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the 
blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So 
loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters; 
and I could perceive that Sophia in the fright had 
thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for pro- 
tection. The gentleman came up, and asked 
pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he 
was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore 
sat down by my youngest daughter, and sportsman 
like, offered her what he had killed that morning 
She was going to refuse, but a private look from 
her mother soon induced her to correct the mis- 
take, and accept his present, though with some 
reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her 
pride in a whisper, observing, that Sophy had 
made a conquest of the chaplain, as well as her 
sister had of the 'squire. I suspected, however, 
with more probability, that her affections were 
placed upon a different object. The chaplain's 
errand was to inform us, that Mr. Thornhill had 
provided music and refreshments, and intended 
that night giving the young ladies a ball by moon- 
light, on the grass-plot before our door. ' Nor can 
I deny,' continued he, ' but I have an interest in 
being first to deliver this message, as I expect for 
my reward to be honoured with Miss Sophy's hand 
as a partner.' To this my girl replied, that she should 
have no objection, if she could do it with honour ; 
' But here,' continued she, ' is a gentleman,' look- 
ing at Mr. Burchell, ' who has been my companion 
in the task for the day, and it is fit he should 
share in its amusements.' Mr. Burchell returned 
her a compliment for her intentions ; but resigned 
her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go 
that night five miles, being invited to a harvest 
supper. His refusal appeared to me a little ex- 
traordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible 
a girl as my youngest, could thus prefer a man of 
broken fortunes to one whose expectations were 
much greater. But as men are most capable of 
distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often 
form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes 
seem placed as spies upon each other, and are 
furnished with different abilities, adapted for 
mutual inspection. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior finery 
ever seems to confer superior breeding. 

Mr. Btjrcheli, had scarcely taken leave, and 
Sophia consented to dance with the chaplain, 
when my little ones came running out to tell U3 
that the 'squire was come with a crowd of company 
Upon our return, we found our landlord, with a 
couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies 
richly dressed, whom he introduced as women of 
very great distinction and fashion from town. We 
happened not to have chairs enough for the whole 
company; but Mr. Thornhill immediately pro- 
posed that every gentleman should sit in a lady's 
lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding 
a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses 
was therefore sent to borrow a couple of chairs; 
and as we were in want of ladies to make up a 
set at country dances, the two gentlemen went 
with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs 
and partners were soon provided. The gentlemen 
returned with my neighbour Flamborough's rosy 
daughters, flaunting with red top-knots: but an 
unlucky circumstance was not adverted to ; though 
the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very 
best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig 
and the round-about to perfection, yet they were 
totally unacquainted with country dances. This 
at first discomposed us; however, after a little 
shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily 
on. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a 
pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright. Mr. 
Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, 
to the great delight of the spectators ; for the 
neighbours hearing what was going forward, came 
flocking about us. My girl moved with so much 
grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid 
discovering the pride of her heart, by assuring me, 
that though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the 
steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the 
town strove hard to be equally easy, but without 
success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and 
frisked; but all would not do; the gazers indeed 
owned that it was fine ; but neighbour Flam- 
borough observed, that Miss Livy's feet seemed as 
pat to the music as its echo. After the dance 
had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who 
were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to 
break up the ball. One of them, I thought, ex- 
pressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a 
very coarse manner, when she observed that, by 
the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat. 
Upon our return to the house, we found a very 
elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had 
ordered to be brought with him. The conversa- 
tion at this time was more reserved than before. 
The two ladies threw my girls quite into the shade ; 
for they would talk of nothing but high life, and 
high-lived company; with other fashionable topics, 
such as pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the mu- 
sical glasses. 'Tis true, they once or twice morti- 
fied us sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that 
appeared to me as the surest symptom of their 
distinction, (though I am since informed that 
swearingis perfectly unfashionable.) Their finery, 
however, threw a veil over any grossness in their 
conversation. My daughters seemed to regard 
their superior accomplishments with snvy; and 
vnat appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



141 



quality breeding. But the condescension of the 
ladies was still superior to their other accomplish- 
ments. One of them observed, that had Miss 
Olivia seen a little more of the world, it would 
greatly improve her. To which the other added, 
that a single winter in town would make her little 
Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly 
assented to both ; adding, that there was nothing 
she more ardently wished than to give her girls a 
single winter's polishing. To this I could not 
help replying, that their breeding was already 
superior to their fortune; and that greater refine- 
ment would only serve to make their poverty 
ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures they 
had no right to possess. — 'And what pleasures,' 
cried Mr. Thornhill, ' do they not deserve to pos- 
sess, who have so much in their pcwer to bestow ? 
As for my part,' continued he, 'my fortune is 
pretty large; love, liberty, and pleasure, are my 
maxims ; but curse me, if a settlement of half my 
estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it 
should be hers ; and the only favour I would ask 
in return would be to add myself to the benefit.' 
I was not such a stranger to the world as to be 
ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to dis- 
guise the insolence of the basest proposal; but I 
made an effort to suppress my resentment. ' Sir,' 
cried I, ' the family which you now condescend to 
favour with your company, has been bred with as 
nice a sense of honour as you. Any attempts to 
injure that, may be attended with very dangerous 
consequences. Honour, sir, is our only possession 
at present, and of that last treasure we must be 
particularly careful.' — I was soon sorry for the 
warmth with which I had spoken this, when the 
young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he 
commended my spirit, though he disapproved my 
suspicions. ' As to your present hint,' continued 
he, ' I protest nothing was farther from my heart 
than such a thought. No, by all that's tempting, 
the virtue that will stand a regular seige was 
never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried 
by a coup de main.' 

The two ladies who affected to be ignorant of 
the rest seemed highly displeased with this last 
stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and 
serious dialogue upon virtue : in this my wife, the 
chaplain, and I, soon joined; and the 'squins him- 
self was at last brought to confess a sense of soy 
row for his former excesses. We talked of the 
pleasures of temperance, and of the sunshine in 
the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well 
pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond 
the usual time to be edified by so much good con- 
versation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, 
and demanded if I had any objection to giving 
prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal, and in 
this manner the night was passed in a most com- 
fortable way, till at last the company began to 
think of returning. The ladies seemed very un- 
willing to part with my daughters ; for whom they 
had conceived a particular affection, and joined in 
a request to have the pleasure of their company 
home. The 'squire seconded the proposal, and my 
wife added her entreaties ; the girls too looked 
upon me as if they wished to go. In this per- 
plexity I made two or three excuses, which my 
daughters as readly removed ; so that at last I 
was obliged to give a peremptory refusal; for 
which we had nothing but sullen looks and short 
answers the whole day ensuing. 




, . . 1 knew by their looks, upon their returning, that 
they had been promised something great." 



CHAPTER! 



The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The 
miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear abovp 
their circumstances. 

I now began to find that all my long and painful 
lectures upon temperance,simplicity and content- 
ment, were entirely disregarded. The distinctions 
lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride 
which I had laid asleep but not removed. Our 
windows again, as formerly, were filled with 
washes for the neck and face. The sun was 
dreaded as an enemy to the skin without doors, 
and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. 
My wife observed that rising too early would hurt 
her daughters' eyes, that working after dinner 
would redden their noses, and she convinced me 
that the hands never looked so white as when they 
did nothing. Instead, therefore, of finishing 
George's shirts, we had them now new modelling 
their old gauzes7 or flourishing upon catgut. The 
poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay com- 
panions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and 
the whole conversation ran upon high life and 
high-lived company, with pictures, taste, Shak- 
speare, and the musical glasses. 

But we could have borne all this, had not a for- 
tune-telling gipsey come to raise us into perfect 
sublimity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared 
than my girls came running to me for a shilling 
a-piece, to cross her hand with silver. To say 
the truth, I was tired of being always wise, and 
could not help gratifying their request, because I 
loved to see them happy. I gave each of them a 
shilling ; though, for the honour of the family, 
it must be obseved, that they never went without 
money themselves, as my wife always generously 
let them have a guinea each, to keep in their 
pockets; but with strict injunctions never to 
change it. After they had been closetted up with 
the fortune-teller for some time, 1 knew by their 
looks, upon their returning, that they had been 
promised something great. ' Well, my girls, how 
have you sped? Tell me Livy, has the fortune- 
teller given thee a pennyworth?' — 'I protest, 
papa,' says the girl, ' I believe she deals with 
somebody that is not right; for she positively de- 
clared, that I am to be married to a 'squire in less 
than a twelvemonth !'— ' Well, now, Sophy, my 
child,' said I, ' and what sort of a husband are you 
to have V—' Sir,' replied she, ' I am to have a lord 
soon after my sister has married the 'squire.'— 






142 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



How, cried I, ' Is that all you are to have for 
your two shillings ? Only a lord and a squire for 
two shillings! You fools, I could have promised 
you a prince and a nabob for half the money.' 

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended 
with very serious effects j we now began to think 
ourselves designed by the stars for something ex- 
alted, and already anticipated our future gran- 
deur. 

It has been a thousand times observed, and I 
must observe it once more, that the hours we pas? 
with happy prospects in view, are more pleasing 
than those crowned with fruition. In the first 
case, we cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the 
latter, nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to 
repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up 
for our entertainment. We looked upon our for- 
tunes as once more rising; and, as the whole 
parish asserted that the 'squire was in love with 
my daughter, she was actually so with him ; for 
they persuaded her into the passion. In this 
agreeable interval, my wife had the most lucky 
dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us 
every morning with great solemnity and exact- 
ness. It was one night a coffin and cross bones, 
the sign of an approaching wedding ; at another 
time she imagined her daughters' pockets filled 
with farthings, a certain sign they would shortly 
be stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had 
their omens. They felt strange kisses on their 
lips ; they saw rings in the candle ; purses bounced 
from the fire, and true-love knots lurked in the 
bottom of every tea-cup. 

Towards the end of the week we received a card 
from the town ladies ; in which, with their com- 
pliments, they hoped to see all our family at church 
the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I 
could perceive in consequence of this, my wife and 
daughters in close conference together, and now 
and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed 
a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspi- 
cions that some absurd proposal was preparing for 
appearing with splendour the next day. In the 
evening they began their operations in a very re- 
gular manner, and my wife undertook to conduct 
the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, 
she began thus : ' I fancy, Charles, my dear, we 
shall have a great deal of good company at our 
church to-morrow.' — ' Perhaps we may, my dear,' 
returned I ; ' though you need be under no un- 
easiness about that, you shall have a sermon 
whether there be or not.'—' That is what I ex 
pect,' returned she ; * but I think, my dear, w 
ought to appear there as decently as possible, foi 
who knows what may happen ?'— ' Your precau 
tions,' replied I, ' are highly commendable. A 
decent behaviour and appearance at church is 
what charms me. We should be devout and 
humble, cheerful and serene.'—' Yes,' cried she, 
1 1 know that ; but I mean we should go there in as 
proper a manner as possible, not altogether like 
the scrubs about us.' — ' You are quite right my 
dear,' returned I, ' and I was going to make the 
very same proposal. The proper manner of going 
is, to go there as early as possible, to have time 
for meditation before the service begins.' — ' Phoo, 
Charles !' interrupted she : ' all that is very true ; 
but not what I would be at. I mean we should 
go there genteelly. You know the church is two 
miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my 
daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed 
and red with walking, and looking for all the 



world as if they had been winners at a smock 
race. Now, iay dear, my proposal is this ; there 
are our two plough horses, the colt that has been 
in our family these nine years past, and his com- 
panion Blackberry, that has scarce done an earthly 
thing for this month past. They are both grown 
fat and lazy. Why should they not do something 
as well as we ? And let me tell you, when Moses 
has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very 
tolerable figure.' 

To this proposal I objected ; that ' walking would 
be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry 
conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the 
colt wanted a tail : that they had never been broke 
to the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks ; 
and that we had but one saddle and pillion in the 
whole house.' All these objections, however, 
were over-ruled ; so that I was obliged to comply. 
The next morning I observed them not a little 
busy in collecting such materials as might be ne- 
cessary for the expedition ; but as I found it would 
be a business of time, I walked on to the church 
before, and they promised speedily to follow. I 
waited near an hour in the reading desk for their 
arrival ; but not finding them come as I expected, 
I was obliged to begin, and went through the ser- 
vice, not without some uneasiness at finding them 
absent. This was increased when all was finished, 
and no appearance of the family. I therefore 
walked back by the horse-way, which was five 
miles round, though the foot-way was but two, 
and when I got about half-way home, perceived the 
procession marching slowly forward towards the 
church ; my son, my wife, and the two little ones 
exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters 
upon the other. I demanded the cause of their 
delay ; but I soon found by their looks they had 
met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. 
The horses had at first refused to move from the 
door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat 
them forward for about two hundred yards with 
his cudgel. Next the straps of my wife's pillion 
broke down, and they were obliged to stop to re- 
pair them before they could proceed. After that, 
one of the horses took it into his head to stand 
still, and neither blows nor intreaties could pre- 
vail with him to proceed. He was just recovering 
from this dismal situation when I found themj 
but perceiving every thing safe, I own their pre- 
sent mortification did not much displease me, as 
it would give me many opportunities of future tri- 
umph, and teach my daughters more humility. 



CHAPTER XI. 
The family still resolve to hold up their heads. 

Michaelmas-evb happening on the next day 
we were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at 
neighbour Flamborough's. Our late mortifica- 
tions had humbled us a little, or it is probable we 
might have rejected such an invitation with con- 
tempt ; however, we suffered ourselves to be hap- 
py. Our honest neighbour's goose and dumplings 
were fine; and the lamb's-wool, even in the opi- 
nion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, was ex- 
cellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories 
was not quite so well. They were very long and 
very dull, and all about himself, and we had 
laughed at them ten times before ; however, we 
were kind enough to laugh at them once mor*. 
Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always 



THE VICAR OE WAKEFIELD. 



143 



fond of seeing some innocent amusement going 
forward, set the boys and girls to blind man's 
buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the 
diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she 
was not yet too old. In the meantime, my neigh- 
bour and I looked on, laughed at every feat, 
and praised our own dexterity when we were 
young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions 
and commands followed that, and last of all, they 
sat down to hunt the slipper. As every person 
may not be acquainted with this primeval pastime, 
it may be necessary to observe, that the company 
at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the 
ground, all, except one who stands in the middle, 
whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the 
company shove about under their hams from one 
to another, something like a weaver's shuttle. 
As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who 
is up, to face all the company at once, the great 
beauty of the play lies in hitting her a thump with 
the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of 
making a defence. It was in this manner that 
my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped 
about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair 
play ! fair play ! with a voice that might deafen a 
ballad singer, when, confusion on confusion, who 
should enter the room, but our two great acquaint- 
ances from town, lady Blarney, and Miss Carolina 
Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs! Description would 
but beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to describa 
this new mortification. Death ! to be seen bj 
ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar atti 
tudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a 
vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's proposing. We 
seemed struck to the ground for some time, as if 
actually petrified with amazement. 

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, 
and finding us from home, came after us hither, 
as they were uneasy to know what accident could 
have kept us from church the day before. Olivia 
undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the 
whole in a summary v, r ay, only saying, • We were 
thrown from our horses.' At which account the 
ladies were greatly concerned ; but being told the 
family received no hurt, they were extremely 
glad; but being informed that we were almost 
killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry ; but 
hearing that we had a very good night, they were 
extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their 
complaisance to rny daughters : their professions 
the last evering were warm, but now they were 
ardent. They protested a desire of having a more 
lasting acquaintance; lady Blarney was particu- 
larly attached to Olivia ; Miss Carolina Wilelmina 
Amelia Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) 
took a greater fancy to her sister. They supported 
the conversation between themselves, while my 
daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breed- 
ing. But as every reader, however beggarly him- 
self, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with anec- 
dotes of lords, ladies, and knights of the garter, I 
must beg leave to give him the concluding part of 
the present conversation. 

'AH that I know of the matter,' cried Miss 
Skeggs, ' is this, that it may be true, or it may not 
be true ; but this I can assure your ladyship, that 
the whole rout was in amaze; his lordship turned 
all manner of colours, my lady fell into a swoon ; 
but sir Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore he 
was her's to the last drop of his blood.' 

1 Well,' replied our peeress, * this I can say, that 
the duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, 



and I believe her grace would keep nothing a se- 
cret from me. This you may depend upon as 
fact, that the next morning my lord duke cried 
out three times to. his valet de chambre, " Jerni- 
gan, Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters." ' 

But previously I should have mentioned the 
very impolite behaviour of Mr. Burchell, who, 
during this discourse, sat with his face turned to 
the fire, and at the conclusion of every sentence 
would cry out fudge, an expression which dis- 
pleased us all, and in some measure damped the 
rising spirit of the conversation. 

' Besides, my dear Skeggs,' continued our peer- 
ess, 'thrre is nohing of this in the copy of verses 
that Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion.' Fudge! 

'I am surprised at that,' cried Miss Skeggs; 
' for he seldom leaves any thing out, as he writes 
only for his own amusement. But can your lady- 
ship favour me with a sight of them V Fudge ! 

' My dear creature,' replied our peeress, ' do you 
think I carry such things about me? Though 
they are very fine, to be sure, and I think myself 
something of a judge ; at least I know what 
pleases myself. Indeed I was ever an admirer of 
all doctor Burdock's little pieces ; for except what 
he does, and our dear countess at Hanover- 
square, there's nothing comes out but the lowest 
stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life among them.' 
Fudge ! 

'Your ladyship should except,' says t'other, 
'your own things in the Lady's Magazine. I 
nope you'll say there's nothing low-lived there? 
But I suppose we are to have no more from that 
quarter?' Fudge! 

'Why, my dear,' says the lady, 'you know my 
eader and companion has left me, to be married 

captain ftoacn, and as my poor eyes won't suiter 
me to write myself, I have been for some time 
looking out for another. A proper person is no 
easy matter to find, and to be sure thirty pounds 
a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of 
character, that can read, write, and behave in 
company ; as for the chits about town, there is no 
bearing them about one.' Fudge! 

' That I know,' cried Miss Skeggs, ' by expe- 
rience. For of the three companions I had this 
last half year, one of them refused to do plain- 
work an hour in the day, another thought twenty- 
five guiueas a year too small a salc:y, and I was 
obliged to send away the third, because I suspected 
an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear 
lady Blarney, virtue is worth any price ; but where 
is that to be found ?' Fudge ! 

My wife had been for a long time all attention 
to this discourse; but was particularly struck 
with the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and 
twenty-five guineas a year made fifty-six pounds 
five shillings English money, all which was in a 
•manner going a begging, and might easily be se- 
cured in the family. She for a moment studied 
my looks for approbation; and to own a truth, I was 
of opinion, that two such places would fit our two 
daughters exactly. Besides, if the 'squire had 
any real affection for my eldest daughter, this 
would be the way to make her every way quali- 
fied for her fortune. My wife therefore was re- 
solved that we should not be deprived of such ad- 
vantages for want of assurance, and undertook to 
harangue for the family. 'I hope,' cried she, 
' your ladyships will pardon my present presump- 
tion. It is true, we have no right to pretend to 
such favours ; but yet it is natural for me to wish. 



144 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



putting my children forward in the world. And 
I will be bold to say my two girls have had a 
pretty good education, and capacity, at least tha 
country can't show better. They can read, write, 
and cast accompts ; they understand their needle-, 
broadstitch, cross and change, and all manner of 
plainwork; they can pink, point, and frill; and 
know something of music ; they can do up small 
clothes, work upon catgut ; my eldest can cut pa- 
per, and my youngest has a very pretty manner 
of telling fortunes upon the cards.' Fudge ! 

When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo- 
quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few 
minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and im- 
portance. At last, Miss Carolina Wilelmina Ame- 
lia Skeggs condescended to observe, that the 
young ladies, from the opinion she should form oi 
them from so slight an acquaintance, seemed 
very fit for such employment : ' But a thing of this 
kind, madam,' cried she, addressing my spouse, 
' requires a thorough examination into characters, 
and a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, 
madam,' continued she, ' that I in the least sus- 
pect the young ladies' virtue, prudence, and dis- 
cretion ; but there is a form in these things, ma- 
dam, there is a form.' 

My wife approved her suspicions very much, 
observing, that she was very apt to be suspicious 
herself; but referred her to all the neighbours for 
a character : but this our peeress declined as un- 
necessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill's re- 
commendation would be sufficient, and upon this 
we rested our petition. 



CHAPTER XII. 

Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield. 
Mortifications are often more painful than real cala- 
mities 

When we returned home, the night was dedi- 
cated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah 
exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of 
the two girls was likely to have the best place, 
and most opportunities of seeing good company. 
The only obstacle to our preferment was in ob- 
taining the 'squire's recommendation ; but he had 
already shown us too many instances of his friend- 
ship to doubt of it now. Even in bed my wife 
kept up the usual theme : ' Well, faith, my dear 
Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made 
an excellent day's work of it.'— 'Pretty well,' 
cried I, not knowing what to say. — ' What, only 
pretty well!' returned she, 'I think it is very 
well. Suppose the girls should come to make ac- 
quaintances of taste in town? This I am assured 
of, that London is the only place in the world for 
all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, 
£traag3t things happen every day ; and as ladies 
of quality are so greatly taken with my daughters, 
what will not men of quality be ? Entre nous, I 
protest I like my lady Blarney vastly, so very 
obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilelmina 
Amelia Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, 
when they came to talk of places in town, you 
saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my 
dear, don't you think I did for my children there?' 
— ' Aye,' returned I, not knowing well what to 
think of the matter, ' Heaven grant they may be 



both better for it this day three months !' This 
was one of those observations I usually made to 
impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity ; 
for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish 
fulfilled ; but if any thing unfortunately ensued, 
then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. All 
this conversation, however, was only preparatory 
to another scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. 
This was nothing less than, that as we were now 
to hold up our heads a little higher in the woftd, 
it would be proper to sell the colt, which was grown 
old, at a neighbouring a fair, and buy us a iiorse 
that would carry single or double upon an occa- 
sion, and make a pretry appearance at church or 
upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly ; but 
it was as stoutly defended. However, as I weak- 
ened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it 
was resolved to part with him. 

As the fair happened on the following day, I 
had intentions of going myself; but my wife per- 
suaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing ' 
could prevail upon her to permit me from home. 
' No, my dear,' said she, ' our son Moses is a dis- 
creet boy, and can buy and sell to very good ad- 
vantage ; you know all our great bargains are of 
his purchasing. He always stands out and hig- 
gles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain.' 

As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I 
was willing enough to entrust him with this com- 
mission ; and the next morning I perceived his 
sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the 
fair; trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and 
cocking his hat with pins. The business of the 
toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of 
seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal 
box before him to bring home groceries in. He 
had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder 
and lightning, which though grown too short, was 
much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat 
was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied his 
hair with a broad black riband. We all followed 
him several paces from the door, bawling after 
him, ' Good luck, good luck,' till we could see him 
no longer. 

He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Thornhill's 
butler came to congratulate us upon our good for- 
tune, saying, that he overheard his young master 
mention our names with great commendation. 

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. 
Another footman from the same family followed 
with a card for my two daughters, importing, that 
the two ladies had received such pleasing ac- 
counts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that after a 
few previous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly 
satisfied. ' Aye,' cried my wife, ' I now see it is 
no easy matter to get into the families of the great; 
but when one once gets in, then, as Moses says, 
one may go to sleep.' To this piece of humour, 
for she intended it for wit, my daughters assented 
with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such 
was her satisfaction at this message, that she ac 
tually put her hand in her pocket, and gave th* 
messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next tha 
came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. 
He brought my little ones a penny-worth of gin- 
gerbread each, which my wife undertook to keep 
for them, and give them by letters at a time. He 
brought my daughters also a couple of boxe*. in 
which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or 
even money, when they got it. My wife was usu- 
ally fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



145 



most lucky ; but this by the bye. We had still a 
regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude be- 
haviour was in some measure displeasing; nor 
could we avoid communicating our happiness to 
him, and asking his advice ; although we seldom 
followed advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. 
When we read the note from the two ladies, he 
shook his head, and observed that an affair of this 
kind demanded the utmost circumspection. This 
air of diffidence highly displeased my wife. « I 
never doubted, sir,' cried she, 'your readiness to 
be against my daughters and me. You have more 
circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy 
when we come to ask advice, we shall apply to those 
who seem to have made use of it themselves.' — 
'Whatever my own conduct may have been, ma- 
dam,' replied he, 'is not the present question ; though 
as I have made no use of advice myself, I should 
in conscience give it to those that will.' As I was 
apprehensive this answer might draw on a re 
partee, making up by abuse what it wanted in 
wit, I changed the subject, by seeming to wonder 
what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it 
was now almost night-fall. ' Never mind our son,' 
cried my wife ; depend upon it he knows what he 
is about. I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his 
hen on a rainy day. I have seen him buy such 
bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good 
story about that, that will make you burst your 
sides with laughing. — But as I live, yonder comes 
Moses, without a horse, and the box at his back.' 
As she spoke, Moses qame slowly on foot, and 
sweating under the deal box, which he had strap- 
ped round his shoulders like a pedlar. ' Welcome, 
welcome, Moses : well, my boy, what have you 
brought us from the fair V — ' I have brought you 
myself,' cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting 
the box on the dresser. ' Aye, Moses,' cried my 
wife, ' that we know, but where is the horse V— 
' I have sold him,' cried Moses, ' for three pounds 
five shillings and twopence.' — ' Well do«e, my 
good boy,' returued she, ' I knew you would touch 
them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five 
shillings and twopence is no bad days work. 
Come, let us have it then.' — ' I have brought back 
no money,' cried Moses again, ' I have laid it all 
out in a bargain, and here it is,' pulling out a 
bundle from his breast ; ' here they are ; a gross of 
green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen 
cases.' — ' A gross of green spectacles !' replied my 
wife in a faint voice. ' And you have parted with 
the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross 
of green paltry spectacles V — ' Dear mother,' cried 
the boy, ' why won't you listen to reason ; I had 
them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought 
them. The silver rims alone will sell for double 
the money.' — ' A fig for the silver rims,' cried my 
wife, in a passion ; ' I dare swear they won't sell 
for above half the money at the rate of broken sil- 
ver, five shillings an ounce.' — ' You need be under 
! no uneasiness,' cried I, ' about selling the rims, 
I for they are not worth sixpence, for I perceive 
they are only copper varnished over !' — ' What,' 
cried my wife, ' not silver ! the rims not silver!' — 
' No,' cried I, ' no more silver than your saucepan.' 
— ' And so,' returned she, ' we have parted with 
the colt, and have only got a gross of green spec- 
tacles with copper rims and shagreen cases ! A 
murrian take 6uch trumpery. The blockhead has 
been imposed upon, and should have known his 
company better.' — ' There, my dear,' cried I, 'you 
are wrong, he should not have known them at all.' 



• Marry, Lang the idiot,' returned she, ' to bring 
me such stuff; if I had them, I would throw them 
in the fire !'— ' There again you are wrong, my 
dear,' cried I ; 'for though they be copper, we will 
keep them by us ; as copper spectacles, you know, 
are better than nothing.' 

By this time the unfortunate Moses was unde- 
ceived. He now saw that he had indeed been im- 
posed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing 
his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I 
therefore asked him the circumstances of his de- 
ception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked 
the fair in search of another. A reverend looking 
man brought him to a tent, under pretence of 
having one to sell. ' Here,' continued Moses, 

♦ we met another man very well dressed, who de- 
sired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, say- 
ing that he wanted money, and would dispose of 
them for a third of the value. The first gentle- 
man, who pretended to be my friend, whispered 
me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so 
good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. Flamborough, 
and they talked him up as finely as they did me, 
and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two 
gross between us.' 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Mr. Burchell is found to be an enemy ; for he has the cob 
fidence to give disagreeable advice. 

Our family had now made several attempts to b< 
fine, but some unforeseen disaster demolished each 
as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the 
advantage of every disappointment, to imorove 
their good sense in proportion as they were frus- 
trated in ambition. ' You see, my children,' cried 
I, ' how little is to be got by attempts to impose 
upon the world, in coping witli our betters. Such 
as are poor and will associate with none but the 
rich, are hated by those they avoid, and despised 
by those they follow. Unequal combinations are 
always disadvantageous to the weaker side : the 
rich having the pleasures, and the poor the incon- 
veniences that result from them. But come, 
Dick, my boy, and repeat the fable that you were 
reading to-day, for the good of the company.' 

' Once upon a time,' cried the child, ' a giant 
and a dwarf were friends, and kept together. They 
made a bargain, that they would never forsake 
each other, but go seek adventures. The first bat- 
tle they fought was with two Saracens, and the 
dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the 
champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen 
but very little injury, who, lifting up his sword, 
fairly struck off the poor dwarf's arm. He was 
now in a woeful plight ; but the giant coming to 
his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens 
dead on the plain, and the dwarf cut off the dead 
man's head out of spite. They then travelled on 
to another adventure. This was against three 
bloody-minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a 
damsel in distress. The dwarf was not quite so 
fierce now as before ; but for all that struck the 
first blow, which was returned by another, that 
knocked out his eye : but the giant was soon up 
with them, and had they not fled, would certainly 
have killed them every one. They were all very 
joyful for this victory, and the damsel who was re- 
lieved, fell in love with the giant, and married 
bim. They now travelled far, and farther than I 



146 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WOBKS. 



can tell, till they met with a company of robbers. 
The giant, for the first time, was foremost now ; 
but the dwarf was not far behind. The battle wa3 
stout and long. Wherever the giant came all fell 
before him ; but the dwarf had like to have been 
killed more than once. At last the victory de- 
clared for the two adventurers ; but the dwarf lost 
his leg. The dwarf was now without an arm, a 
leg, and an eye, while the giant was without a 
single wound. Upon which he cried out to his 
little companion, my little hero, this is glorious 
spert ; let us get one victory more, and then we 
shall have honour for ever. No, cries the dwarf, 
who was by this time grown wiser, no, I declare 
off; I'll fight no more ; for I find in every battle, 
that you get all the honour and rewards, but all 
the blows fall upon me.' 

I was going to moralize this fable, when our at- 
tention was called off to a warm dispute between 
my wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' 
intended expedition to town. My wife very strenu- 
ously insisted upon the advantages that would re- 
sult from it. Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dis- 
suaded her with great ardour, and I stood neuter. 
His present dissuasions seemed but the second 
part of those which were received with so ill a 
grace in the morning. The dispute grew high, 
while poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, 
talked louder, and at last was obliged to take 
shelter from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion 
of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing 
to us ail : she knew, she said, of some who had 
their own secret reasons for what they advised ; 
but, for her part, she wished such to stay away 
from her house for the future. — ' Madam,' cried 
Burchell, with looks of great composure, which 
tended to inflame her the more, ' as for secret 
reasons, you are right; I have secret reasons, 
which I forbear to mention, because you are not 
able to answer those of which I make no secret ; 
but I and my visits here are become troublesome ; 
I'll take my leave therefore now, and perhaps 
come once more to take a final farewell when I am 
quitting the country.' Thus saying, he took up 
his hat, nor could the attempts of Sophia, whose 
*ooks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent 
his going. 

When gone, we all regarded each other for some 
minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew 
herself to be the cause, strove to hide her concern 
with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which 
I was willing to reprove ; ' How, woman,' cried I 
to her, ' is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus 
we return their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, 
that these were the harshest words, and to me the 
most unpleasing that ever escaped your lips.' — 
' Why would he provoke me then V replied she ; 
' but I know the motives of his advice perfectly 
well. He would prevent my girls from going to 
town, that he may have the pleasure of my young- 
est daughter's company here at home. But what- 
ever happens, she shall choose better company 
than such low-lived fellows as he.' — ' Low-lived, 
my dear, do you call him?' cried I; 'it is very 
possible we may mistake this man's character ; for 
he seems upon some occasions the most finished 
gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my 
girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of 
his attachment V — ' His conversation with me, 
sir,' replied my daughter, • has ever been sensible, 
modest, and pleasing. As to aught else, no, never. 
Once, indeed, I remember to have heard him say 



he never knew a woman who could find merit In 
a man that seemed poor.' — ' Such, my dear,' cried 
I, ' is the common cant of all the unfortunate or 
idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge 
properly of such men, and that it would be even 
madness to expect happiness from one who has 
been so very bad an economist of his own. Your 
mother and I have now better prospects for you. 
The next winter, which you will probably spend 
in town, will give you opportunities of making a 
more prudent choice.' 

What Sophia's reflections were upon this occa- 
sion, I can't pretend to determine ; but I was not 
displeased at the bottom that we were rid of a 
guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach 
of hospitality went to my conscience a little ; but 
I quickly silenced that monitor by two or three 
specious reasons, which served to satisfy and re- 
concile me to myself. The pain which conscience 
gives the man who has already done wrong, is soon 
got over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults 
it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom 
has justice enough to accuse. 



CHAPTER. XIV. 

Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming ca- 
lamities may be real blessings. 

The journey of my daughters to town was now 
resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly pro- 
mised to inspect their conduct himself, and in 
form us by letter of their behaviour. But it was 
thought indispensably necessary that their appear- 
ance should equal the greatness of their expecta- 
tions, which could not be done without expense. 
We debated, therefore, in full council, what were 
the easiest methods of raising money; or more 
properly speaking, what we could most conveni- 
ently sell. The deliberation was soon finished; 
it was found that our remaining horse was utterly 
useless for the plough without his companion, and 
equally unfit for the road, as wanting an eye ; it 
was therefore determined that we should dispose 
of him for the purposes above mentioned, at the 
neighbouring fair; and, to prevent imposition, 
that I should go with him myself. Though this 
was one of the first mercantile transactions of my 
life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself 
with reputation. The opinion a man forms of his 
own prudence is measured by that of the company 
he keeps ; and as mine was mostly in the family 
way, I had conceived no unfavourable sentiments 
of my worldly wisdom. My wife, however, next 
morning, at parting, after I had got some paces 
from the door, called me back to advise me, in a 
whisper, to have all my eyes about me. 

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to ths 
fair, put my horse through all his paces ; but for 
some time had no bidders. At last a chapman 
approached, and after he had a good while ex- 
amined the horse round, finding him blind of om 
eye, he would have nothing to say to him: a 
second came up, but observing he had a spavin, 
declared he would not take him for the driving 
jome, a third perceived he had a windgall, and 
A-ould bid no money ; a fourth knew by his eye 
chat he had the botts ; a fifth wondered what a 
plague I could do at the fair with a blind, spavined, 
galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a dog- 
kennel. By this time I began to have a most 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



147 



hearty contempt for the poor animal myself, and 
was almost ashamed at the approach of every cus- 
tomer ; for though I did not believe all the, fellows 
told me, yet 1 reflected that the number of wit- 
nesses was a strong presumption they were right- 
and St. Gregory upon good works professes himself 
to be of the same opinion. 

I was in this mortifying situation, when a bro- 
ther clergyman, an old acquaintance, who had 
also business in the fair, came up, and shaking 
me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public 
house, and taking a glass of whatever we could 
get. I readily closed with the offer, and entering 
an alehouse, we were shown into a little back 
room, where there was only a venerable old man, 
who sat wholly intent over a large book, which he 
was reading. I never in my life saw a figure that 
prepossessed me more favourably. His locks of 
silver gray venerably shaded his temples, and his 
green old age seemed to be the result of health and 
benevolence. However, his presence did not in- 
terrupt our conversation; my friend and I dis- 
coursed on the various turns of fortune we had 
met ; the Whistonian controversy, my last pam- 
phlet, the archdeacon's reply, and the hard mea- 
sure that was dealt me. But our attention was 
in a short time taken off by the appearance of a 
youth, who entering the room, respectfully said 
something softly to the old stranger. ' Make no 
apologies, my child,' said the old man, ' to do good 
is a duty we owe to all our fellow creatures : take 
this, I wish it were more; but five pounds will 
relieve your distress, and you are welcome.' The 
modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his 
gratitude was scarce equal to mine. 1 could have 
hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevo- 
lence pleased me so. He continued to read, and 
we resumed our conversation, until my companion 
after some time, recollecting that he had business 
to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back; 
adding that he always desired to have as much of 
Dr. Primrose's company as possible. The old 
gentleman, hearing my name mentioned, seemed 
to look at me with attention, for some time, and 
when my friend was gone, most respectfully de- 
manded if I was any way related to the great 
Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had 
been the bulwark of the church. Never did my 
heart feel a sincerer rapture than at that moment. 
' Sir,' cried I, the applause of so good a man, as I 
am sure you are, adds to that happiness in my 
breast which your benevolence has already excited. 
You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the 
monogamist, whom yon have been pleased to call 
great. You here see that unfortunate divine, who 
has so long, and it would ill become me to say, 
successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of 
the age.' — ' Sir,' cried the stranger, struck with 
awe, ' 1 fear I have been too familiar; but you'll 
forgive my curiosity, sir : I beg pardon.' — ' Sir,' 
Dried I, grasping his hand, ' you are so far from 
displeasing me by your familiarity, that I must 
beg you'll accept my friendship, as you already 
have my esteem.'—' Then with gratitude I accept 
the offer,' cried he, squeezing me by the hand, 
* thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy ! and . 
do I behold — ' I here interrupted what he was 
going to say ; for though, as an author, I could 
digest no small share of flattery, yet now my 
modesty would permit no more. However, no 
lovers in romance ever cemented a more instan- 
taneous friendship. We talked upon several 



subjects : at first I thought he seemed rather de- 
vout than learned, and began to think he despised 
all human doctrines as dross. Yet, this no way 
lessened him in my esteem; for I had for some 
time begun privately to harbour such an opinion 
myself. I therefore took occasion to observe that 
the world in general, began to be blameably indif- 
ferent as to doctrinal matters, and followed human 
speculations too mueh. ' Ay, sir,' replied he, as if 
he had reserved all his learning to that moment, 
'Ay, sir, the world is in its dotage; and yet the 
cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled 
philosophers of all ages. What a medley of 
opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
of the world ! Sanconiathon, Manetho, Berosus, 
and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in 
vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara 
kai atelutaion to pan, which imply that all things 
have neither beginning nor end. Manetho also, 
who lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser, 
Asser being a Syriac word usually applied as a 
sirname to the kings of that country, as Teglat 
Phael- Asser, Nabon-Asser, he, I say, formed a 
conjecture equally absurd ; for, as we usually say, 
ek ton biblion kubernetes, which implies that books 
will never teach the world ; so he attempted to 
investigate — But, sir, I ask pardon, I am straying 
from the question.' — That he actually was ; nor 
could I for my life see how the creation of the 
world had any thing to do with the business I was 
talking of; but it was sufficient to show me that 
he was a man of letters, and I now reverenced 
him the more. I was resolved therefore to bring 
him to the touch-stone ; but he was too mild and 
too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I 
made any observation that looked like a challenge 
to controversy, he would smile, shake his head, 
and say nothing ; by which I understood he could 
say much, if he thought proper. The subject 
therefore insensibly changed from the business of 
antiquity to that which brought us both to the 
fair ; mine I told him was to sell a horse, and very 
luckily, indeed, his was to buy one for one of his 
tenants. My horse was soon produced and in fine 
we struck a bargain. Nothing now remained but 
to pay me, and he accordingly pulled out a thirty 
pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in 
a capacity of complying with his demand, he 
ordered his footman to be called up, who made his 
appearance in a very genteel livery. ' Here, Abra- 
ham,' cried he, ' go and get gold for this ; you'll do 
it at neighbour Jackson's, or any where.' While 
the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a pa- 
thetic harangue on the great scarcity of sDver, 
which I undertook to improve, by deploring also 
the great scarcity of gold ; so that by the time 
Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money 
was never so hard to be come at as now. Abra- 
ham returned to inform us, that he had been over 
the whole fair and could not get change, though 
he had offered half a crown for doing it. This was 
a very great disappointment to us all ; but the old 
gentleman having paused a little, asked me if I 
knew one Solomon Flamborough in my part of the 
country ; upon replying that he was my next door 
neighbour, ' If that be the case, then,' returned he, 
1 I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draft 
upon him, payable at sight ; and let me tell you, 
he is as warm a man as any within five miles 
round him. Honest Solomon and I have been ac- 
quainted for many years together. I remember I 
always beat him at three jumps ; but he could hop 



=J 



148 



GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



upon one leg farther than I. A draft upon my 
neighbour was to me the same as money ; for I 
was sufficiently convinced of his ability; the 
draft was signed and put into my hands, and 
Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abra- 
ham, and my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off 
very well pleased with each other. 

After a short interval being left to reflection, I 
began to recollect that I had done wrong in taking 
a draft from a stranger, and so prudently re- 
solved upon following the purchaser, and having 
back my horse. But this was now too late; I 
therefore made directly homewards, resolving to 
get the draft changed into money at my friend's 
as soon as possible. I found my honest neighbour 
smoking his pipe at his own door, and informing 
him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it 
twice over. ' You can read the name, I suppose,' 
cried 1, ' Ephraim Jenkinson.' — ' Yes,' returned 
he, 'the name is written plain enough, and I 
know the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under 
the canopy of heaven. This is the very same 
rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a 
venerable looking man, with gray hair, and no 
flaps to his pocket-holes ? And did he not talk a 
long string of learning about Greek and cosmo- 
gony, and the world?' To this I replied with a 
groan. • Ay,' continued he, • he has but that one 
piece of learning in the world, and he always talks 
it away whenever he finds a scholar in company ; 
but I know the rogue, and will catch him yet.' 

Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my 
greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife 
and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid 
of returning to school, there to behold the master's 
visage, than I was of goiDg home. I was deter- 
mined, nowever, to anticipate their fury, by first 
falling into a passion myself. 

But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no 
way disposed for battle. My wife and girls were 
all in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that 
day to inform them, that their journey to town was 
entirely over. The two ladies having heard re- 
ports of us from some malicious person about us, 
were that day set out for London. He could 
neither discover the tendency, nor the author of 
these, but whatever they might be, or whoever 
might have broached them, he continued to assure 
our family cf his friendship and protection. I 
found, therefore, that they bore my disappoint- 
ment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in 
the greatness of their own. But what perplexed 
us most was to think, who could be so base as to 
asperse the character of a family so harmless as 
ours, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffen- 
sive to create disgust. 



CHAPTER XV. 

All Mr. Burchell's villaay at once detected. The folly of 
being over- wise. 

That evening and a part of the following day was 
employed in fruitless attempts to discover our 
enemies : scarce a family in the neighbourhood 
but incurred our suspicions, and each of us had 
reasons for our opinions best known to ourselves. 
As we were in this perplexity, one of our little 
boys, who had been playing abroad, brought in a 
letter-case, which he found on the green. It was 
quickly known to belong to Mr. Burchell, with 



whom it had been seen, and upon examination, 
contained some hints upon different subjects ; but 
what particularly engaged our attention was a 
sealed note, superscribed, ' the copy of a letter to 
be sent to the two ladies at Thornhill-castle. It 
instantly occurred that he was the base informer,, 
and we deliberated whether the note should not be 
broken open. I was against it ; but Sophia, who 
said she was sure that of all men he would be the 
last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon 
its being read. In this she was seconded by the 
rest of the family, and, at their joint solicitations, 
I read as follows : 
'Ladies, 

' The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to 
the person from whom this comes : one at least 
the friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its 
being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that 
you have some intentions of bringing two young 
ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of, 
under the character of companions. As I would 
neither have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue 
contaminated, I must offer it as my opinion, that 
the impropriety of such a step will be attended 
with dangerous consequences. It has never been 
my way to treat the infamous or the lewd with 
severity ; nor should I now have taken this me- 
thod of explaining myself, or reproving folly, did 
it not aim at guilt. Take, therefore, the admoni- 
tion of a friend, and seriously reflect on the conse- 
quences of introducing infamy and vice into re- 
treats where peace and innocence have hitherto 
resided.' 

Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed 
indeed something applicable to both sides in this 
letter, and its censures might as well be referred 
to tnose to whom it was written, as to us ; but the 
malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no 
further. My wife had scarcely patience to hear 
me to the end, but railed at the writer with unre 
strained resentment. Olivia was equally severe, 
and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his base- 
ness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of 
the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I 
had met with. Nor could I account for it in any 
other manner than by imputing it to his desire of 
detaining my youngest daughter in the country, 
to have the more frequent opportunities of an in- 
terview. In this manner we all sat ruminating 
Upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little 
boy came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell 
was approaching at the other end of the field. It is 
easier to conceive than describe the complicated 
sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent 
injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. 
Though our intentions were only to upbraid him 
with his ingratitude, yet it was resolved to do it 
in a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For 
this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual 
smiles, to chat in the beginning with more than 
ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little; and 
then in the midst of the flattering calm to burst 
upon him like an earthquake, and overwhelm him 
with the sense of his own baseness. This being 
resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the 
business herself, as she really had some talents for 
such an undertaking. We saw him approach, he 
entered, drew a chair, and sat down. 'A fine 
day, Mr. Burchell.' — ' A very fine day, doctor ; 
though I fancy we shall have rain by the shooting 
of my corns.' — ' The shooting of your horns !' cried 
my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



149 



pardon for being fond of a joke. ' Dear madam, 
replied he, ' I pardon you with all my heart ; for, 
I protest, I should not have thought it a joke had 
you not told me.'—' Perhaps not, sir,' cried my 
wife, winking at us, ' and yet I dare say you can 
tell us how many jokes go to an ounce.' — ' I fancy, 
madam,' returned Burchell, ' you have been read- 
ing a jest book this morning, that ounce of jokes 
is so very good a conceit ; and yet, madam, I had 
rather see half an ounce of understanding.' — ' I 
believe you might,' cried my wife, still smiling at 
us, though the laugh was against her ; ' and yet 
I have seen some men pretend to understanding 
that have very little.' — ' And, no doubt,' replied 
her antagonist, ' you have known ladies set up 
for wit that had none.' I quickly began to find 
that my wife was likely to gain but little at this 
business ; so I resolved to treat him in a style of 
more severity myself. ' Both wit and understand- 
ing,' cried I, ' are trifles without integrity ; it is 
that which gives value to every character. The 
ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than 
the philosopher with many ; for what is genius or 
courage without a heart ? An honest man is the 
noblest work of God.' 

' I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,' 
returned Mr. Burchell, ' as very unworthy a man 
of genius, and a base desertion of his own supe- 
riority. As the reputation of books is raised not 
by their freedom from defect, but the greatness of 
their beauties ; so should that of men be prized 
not for their exemption from fault, but the size of 
those virtues they are possessed of. The scholar 
may want prudence, the statesman may have 
pride, and the champion ferocity ; but, shall we 
prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously 
plods on thiough ;ife, without censure or applause ? 
Yv'e might as well prefer the tame correct paint- 
ings of the Flemish school, to the erroneous, but 
sublime animations of the Roman pencil.' 

' Sir,' replied I, ' your present observation is 
just, when they are shining virtutes and minute 
defects ; but when it appears that great vices are 
opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary 
virtues, such a character deserves contempt,' 

1 Perhaps,' cried he, ' there may be some such 
monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to 
great virtues ; yet in my progress through life, I 
never yet found one instance of their existence : 
on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where 
the mind was capacious, the affections were good. 
And indeed Providence seems kindly our friend 
in this particular, thus to debilitate the under- 
standing where the heart is corrupt, and diminish 
the power where there is the will to do mischief. 
This rule seems to extend even to other animals ; 
the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, 
and cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength 
and power, are generous, brave, and gentle.' 

' These observations sound well,' returned I, 
' and yet it would be easy this moment to point 
out a man,' and I fixed my eye steadfastly upon 
him, ' whose head and heart form a most detes- 
table contrast. Ay, sir,' continued I, raising my 
voice, ' and I am glad to have this opportunity of 
detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. 
Do you know this, sir, this pocket-book V — ' Yes, 
sir,' returned he, with a face of impenetrable as- 
surance, ' that pocket-book is mine, and I am 
glad you have found it,' — ' And do you know,' 
cried I, 'this letter? Nay, never falter, man; 
but look me full in the face ; I say, do you know 



this letter?' — ' That letter, returned he, 'yes, it 
was I that wrote that letter.'—' And how could 
you,' said I, ' so basely, so ungratefully presume 
to write this letter ?' — ' And how came you,' replied 
he, with looks of unparalleled effrontery, 'so 
basely to presume to break open this letter? Don't 
you know, now, I could hang you all for this? 
All that I have to do is to swear at the next 
justice's, that you have been guilty of breaking 
open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you • 
all up at this door.' This piece of unexpected in- 
solence raised me to such a pitch, that I could 
scarce govern my passion. ' Ungrateful wretch, 
begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with 
thy baseness ! begone, and never let me see thee 
again ! go from my doors, and the only punish- 
ment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which 
will be a sufficient tormentor!' so saying, I threw 
him his pocket-book, which he took up with a 
smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost 
composure, left us, quite astonished at the se- 
renity of his assurance. My wife was particularly 
enraged that nothing could make him angry, or 
make him seem ashamed of his villanies. • My 
dear,' cried I, willing to calm those passions that 
had been raised too high among us, ' we are not 
to be surprised that bad men want shame ; they 
only blush at being detected in doing good, but 
glory in their vices.' 

' Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, ' were at 
first companions, and in the beginning of their 
'•ourney inseparably kept together. But their 
union was soon found to be disagreeable and in- 
convenient to both; Guilt gave Shame frequent 
uneasiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret 
conspiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement, 
therefore, they at length consented to part for 
ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to over- 
take Fate, that went before in the shape of an 
executioner; but Shame being naturally timo- 
rous, returned back to keep company with Virtue, 
which in the beginning of their journey, they 
had left behind. Thus, my children, after men 
have travelled through a few stages in vice, Shame 
forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the 
few virtues they have still remaining.' 



CHAPTER XVI. 

The family use art, which is opposed with still greater. 

"Whatever might have been Sophia's sensations, 
the rest of the family was easily consoled for Mr. 
Burchell's absence by the company of our landlord, 
whose visits now became more frequent and 
longer. Though he had been disappointed in 
procuring my daughters the amusements of the 
town, as he designed, he took every opportunity 
of supplying them Avith those little recreations 
which our retirement would admit of. He usu- 
ally came in the morning, and while my son and 
I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the 
family at home, and amused them by describing 
the town, with every part of which he was parti- 
cularly acquainted. He could repeat all the ob» 
serrations that were retailed in the atmosphere of 
the play-houses, and had all the good things of 
the wits by rote, long before they made their way 
into the jest-books. The intervals between con- 
versation were employed in teaching my daugh- 
ters piquet, or sometimes in setting my two little 



150 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



ones to box, to make them sharp, as he called it; 
but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in 
some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. 
It must be owned that my wife laid a thousand 
schemes to entrap him, or to speak it more ten- 
derly, used every art to magnify the merit of her 
daughter. If the cakes at tea eat short and crisp, 
they were made by Olivia ; if the gooseberry wine 
was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gather- 
ing; it was her fingers which gave the pickles 
their peculiar green ; and in the composition of a 
pudding, it was her judgment that mixed the in- 
gredients. Then the poor woman would some- 
times tell the 'squire, that she thought him an 1 
Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both 
stand up to see which was tallest. These instances 
of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet 
which every body saw through, were ve,ry pleasing 
to our benefactor, who gave every day some new 
proofs of his passion, which though they had no.; 
arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought 
fell but little short of it ; and his slowness was at- 
tributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and 
sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle, 
An occurrence, however, which happened sooa 
after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed to 
become of our family ; my wife even regarded ft 
as an absolute promise. 

My wife and daughters happening to return a 
visit to neighbour Flamborough's, found that fa- 
mily had lately got their pictures drawn by a 
limner, who travelled the country, and took like- 
nesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family 
and ours had long a sort of rivalry in point of 
taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen 
march upon us, and notwithstanding all I could 
say, and I said much, it was resolved that we 
should have our pictures done too. Having, 
therefore, engaged the limner, for what could I 
do? our next deliberation was to show the supe- 
riority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our 
neighbour's family, there were seven of them, and 
they were drawn with seven oranges, a thing quite 
out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in 
the world. We desired to have something in a 
brighter style, and, after many debates, at length 
came to an unanimous resolution of being drawn 
together, in one large historical family piece. 
This would be cheaper, since one frame would 
serve for all, and it would be infinitely more gen- 
teel : for all families of any taste were now drawn 
in the same manner. ' As we did not immediately 
recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were 
contented each with being drawn as independent 
historical figures. My wife desired to be repre- 
sented as Venus, and the painter was desired not 
to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher 
and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cu- 
pids by her side, while I, in my gown and band, 
was to present her with my books on the Whis- 
tonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an 
Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed 
in a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a 
■whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, 
with as many sheep as the painter could put in 
for nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out 
with a hat and white feather. Our taste so much 
pleased the 'squire, that he insisted on being put 
in as one of the family in the character of Alexan- 
der the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was consi- 
dered by us all as an indication of his desire to be 
Introduced into the family, nor could we refuse 



his request. The painter was therefore set to 
work, and as he wrought with assiduity and expe- 
dition, in less than four days the whole was com- 
pleted. The piece was large, and it must be 
owned he did not spare his colours ; for which my 
wife gave him great encomiums. We were all 
perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but an 
unfortunate circumstance had not occurred till 
the picture was finished, which now struck us 
with dismay. It was so very large that we had 
no place in the house to fix it. How we all came 
to disregard so material a point is inconceivable ; 
but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. 
The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our 
vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying 
manner, against the kitchen wall, where the can- 
vass was stretched and painted, much too large to 
be got through any of the doors, and the jest of 
all our neighbours. One compared it to Robinson 
Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed ; ano- 
ther thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle ; 
some wondered how it could be got out, but still 
more were amazed how it ever got in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it 
effectually raised more malicious suggestions in 
many. The 'squire's poi trait being found united 
with ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. 
Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our ex- 
pense, and our tranquillity was continually disturbed 
by persons who came, as friends, to tell us what 
was said of us by enemies. These reports we always 
resented with becoming spirit : but scandal ever 
improves by opposition. 

We once again, therefore, entered into a consul- 
tation upon obviating the malice of our enemies, 
and at last came to a resolution which had too 
much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It 
was this ; as our principal object was to discover 
the honour of Mr. ThornhiU's addresses, my wife 
undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his 
advice in the choice of a husband for her eldest 
daughter. If this was not found sufficient to in- 
duce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to 
terrify him with a rival. To this last step, how- 
ever, I would by no means give my consent, till 
Olivia gave the most solemn assurances, that she 
would marry the person provided to rival him 
upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it by 
taking her himself. Such was the scheme laid, 
which though I did not strenuously oppose, I did 
not entirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill 
came to see us, my girls took care to be out of the 
way, in order to give their mamma an opportu- 
nity of putting her scheme into execution ; but 
hey only retired to the next room, from whence 
hey could over -hear the whole conversation. My 
vife artfully introduced it, by observing that one 
f the Miss Flamborough's was like to have a very 
good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 
squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that 
they who had warm fortunes were always sure of 
getting good husbands.' ' But heaven help,' con- 
tinued she, ' the girls that have none. What sig-. 
nifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill? or what signifies all 
the virtue, and all the qualifications in the world, 
in this age of self-interest ? It is not, what is she ? 
but what has she ? is all the cry.' 

' Madam,' returned he, ' I highly approve the 
iustice, as well as the novelty of your remarks, 
and if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It 
should then, indeed, be fine times with the girls 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



151 



without fortunes ; our two young ladies should he 
the first for whom I would provide.' 

'Ah, sir,' returned my wife, 'you are pleased 
to be facetious ; but I wish I were a queen, and 
then I know -where my eldest daughter should 
look for a husband. But now, that you have put 
it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't 
you recommend me to a proper husband for herr 
she is now nineteen years old, well grown and 
well educated, and, in my humble opinion, does 
not want for parts.' 

' Madam,' replied he, ' if I were to choose, I 
would find out a person possessed of every accom- 
plishment that can make an angel happy. One 
with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity, such, 
madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper hus- 
band.' — 'Ay, sir,' said she, 'but do you know of 
any such person V — ' No, madam,' returned he, 
' it is impossible to know any person that deserves 
to be her husband ; she's too great a treasure for 
one man's possession : she's a goddess. Upon 
my soul, I speak what I think, she's an angel.' — 
' Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl ; 
but we have been thinking of marrying her to one 
of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and 
who wants a manager ; you know whom I mean, 
farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, 
able to give her good bread ; and who has several 
times made her proposals,' (which was actually 
the case) 'but, sir,' concluded she, 'I should be 
glad to have your approbation of our choice.' — 
•How! madam,' replied he, 'my approbation! 
My approbation of such a choice ! Never. What ! 
sacrifice s'o much beauty, and sense, and goodness, 
to a creature insensible of the blessing ! Excuse 
me, I can never approve of such a piece of injus- 
tice! And I have my reasons!' — 'Indeed, sir,' 
cried Deborah, ' if you have your reasons, that's 
another affair ; but I should be glad to know those 
reasons.' — ' Excuse me, madam,' returned he, 
' they lie too deep for discovery :' (laying his hand 
upon his bosom) ' they remain buried, rivetted 
here.' 

After he was gone, upon a general consultation, 
we could not tell what to make of these fine sen- 
timents. Olivia considered them as instances of 
the most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so 
sanguine ; it seemed to me pretty plain, that they 
had more of love than matrimony in them ; yet, 
whatever they might portend, it was resolved to 
prosecute the scheme of farmer Williams, who, 
from my daughter's first appearance in the coun- 
try, had paid her his addresses. 




CHAPTER XVII. 



Scarcely any virtue found to resist the power of long and 
pleasing temptation. 

As I only studied my child's real happiness, the 
assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was 
in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It 
required but very little encouragement to revive 
his former passion ; so that in an evening or two 
he and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and sur- 
veyed each other for some time with looks of 
anger : but Williams owed his landlord no rent, 
and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her 
side, acted the coquet to perfection, if that might 
be called acting, which was her real character, 
pretendiner to lavish all her tenderness on her new 
lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at 
this preference, and with a pensive air took leave ; 
though I own it puzzled me to find him in so 
much pain as he appeared to be, when he had it in 
his power so easily to remove the cause, by de- 
claring an honourable passion. But whatever 
uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be 
perceived that Olivia's anguish was still greater. 
After any of these interviews between her lovers, 
of which there were several, she usually retired to 
solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was in 
such a situation I found her one evening, after 
she had been for some time supporting a fictitious 
gaiety. ' You now see, my child,' said I, 'that 
your confidence in Mr. Thornhill's passion was all 
a dream ; he permits the rivalry of another, every 
way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his 
power to secure you to himself by a candid de- 
claration.' — ' Yes, papa,' returned she, ' but he has 
his reasons for this delay ; I know he has. The 
sincerity of his looks and words convince me of 
his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will dis- 
cover the generosity of his sentiments, and con- 
vince you that my opinion of him has been more 
just than yours.' — ' Olivia, my darling,' returned 
I, ' every scheme that has been hitherto pursued 
to compel him to a declaration, has been proposed 
and planned by yourself, nor can you in the least 
say that I have constrained you ; but you must not 
suppose, my dear, that I will ever be instrumental 
in suffering his honest rival to be the dupe of your 
ill-placed passion. Whatever time you require to 
bring your fancied admirer to an explanation shall 
be granted; but at the expiration of that term, if 
he is still regardless, I must absolutely insist that 
honest Mr. Williams shall be rewarded for his 



152 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



fidelity. The character I have hitherto supported 
in life demands this from me, and my tenderness 
as a parent shall never influence my integrity as 
a man. Name then your day, let it be as distant 
as you think proper, and in the mean time take 
care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on 
which I design delivering you up to another. If 
he really loves you, his own good sense will readily 
suggest that there is but one method alone to pre- 
vent his losing you for ever. This proposal, which 
she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, 
was readily agreed to. She again renewed her 
most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, 
in case of the other's insensibility; and at the next 
opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day 
month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his 
rival. 

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble 
Mr. Thornhill's anxiety; but what Olivia really- 
felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle 
between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite 
forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was 
sought, and spent in tears. One week passed 
away ; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to re- 
strain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was 
still assiduous, but not more open. On the third 
he discontinued his visits entirely; and instead 
of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I 
expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tran- 
quillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For 
my own part, I was now pleased with thinking 
that my child was going to be secured in a con- 
tinuance of competence and peace, and frequently 
applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness 
to ostentation. 

It was within about four days of her intended 
nuptials, tnat my little lannly at night were 
gathered round a charming fire, telling stories of 
the past, and laying schemes for the future. Bu- 
sied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing 
at whatever folly came uppermost. ' Well Moses, 
cried I, ' we shall soon my boy, have a wedding in 
our family; what is your opinion of matters and 
things in general?' — ' My opinion, father, is that 
all things go on very well ; and I was just now 
thinking, that when sister Livy is married to 
farmer Williams, we shall then have the loan of 
his cyder-press, and brewing tubs for nothing.' — 
' That we shall, Moses,' cried I, ' and he will sing 
us Death and the Lady to raise our spirits, into the 
bargain.' — ' He has taught that song to our Dick,' 
cried Moses ; ' and I think he goes through it very 
prettily.' — ' Does he so,' cried I, ' then let us have 
it; where is little Dick, let him up with it boldly.' 
— ' My brother Dick,' cried Bill, my youngest, ' is 
ust gone out with sister Livy; but Mr. Williams 
Has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them foj 
you, papa. Which song do you choose, The dying 
Swan ; or the Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog?' 
— ' The elegy, my child, by all means,' said I ; ' I 
nev&\ heard that yet ; and Deborah, my life, grief, 
you know, is dry; let us have a bottle of the best 
gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have 
Wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that 
without an enlivening glass I am sure this will 
overcome me. And Sophy, love, take your guitar, 
ana thrum in -with th e boy a little.' 



AN ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOO. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song, 
And if you find itwond'rous short, 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 

Of whom the world might say, 
That still a godly race he ran, 
. Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around, from all the neighbouring streeU, 

The wond'ring neighbours ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was rr.ad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light. 

That show'd the rogues they lied I 
The man recover'd of the bite— 

The dog it was that died. 

' A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an 
elegy that may truly be called tragical. Come, 
children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day 
be a bishop !' 

' With all my heart,' cried my wife ; ' and if he 
but preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt 
of him. The most of his family, by the mother's 
side, could sing a good song ; it was a common 
saying in our country, that the family of the 
Blenkinsops could never look straight before them, 
nor the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that there 
were none of the Grograms but could sing a song, 
or of the. Marjorams but could tell a story.'— 
• However that be,' cried I, ' the most vulgar 
ballad of all generally pleases me better than the 
fine modern odes, and things that petrify in a 
single stanza; productions that we at once detest 
and praise. — Put the glass to your brother, Moses. 
— The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they are 
in despair for griefs that give the sensible part of 
mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, 
her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs 
home to versify the disaster. 

' That may be the mode,' cried Moses, ' in sub- 
limer compositions ; but the Ranelagh songs that 
come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all 
cast into the same mould; Colin meets Dolly, and 
they hold a dialogue together; he gives her a 
fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with 
a nosegay; and then they go together to church, 
where they give good advice to young nymphs 
and swains, to get married as fast as they can.' 

« And very good advice too,' cried I ; ' and I am 
told there is not a place in the world where advice 
can be given with so much propriety as there; 
for, as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



153 



us with a wife ; and surely that must be an ex- 
cellent market, my boy, where we are told what 
we want, and supplied with it when wanting.' 

• Yes sir,' returned Moses, 'and I know but of 
two such markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh 
in England, and Fontarabiain Spain. The Span- 
ish market is open once a year, but our English 
wives are saleable every night.' 

« You are right, my boy,' cried hi3 mother, ' Old 
England is the only place in the world for hus- 
bands to get wives.' — ' And for wives to manage 
their husbands,' interrupted I. ' It is a proverb 
abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, 
all the ladies of the continent would come over to 
take pattern from ours; for there are no such 
wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one 
bottle more, Deborah, my life ; and, Moses, give 
us a good song. What thanks do we not owe' to 
heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, 
and competence ! I think myself happier now than 
the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such 
fire-side, nor such pleasar.t faces about it. Yes, 
Deborah, we are now growing oid ; but the evening 
of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended 
from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall 
leave a good and virtuous race of children behind 
us. While we live they will be our support and 
our pleasure here, and when we die they will 
transmit our honour untainted to posterity. — 
Come, my son, we wait for a song; let us h&ve a 
chorus. But where is my darling Olivia: that 
little cherub's voice is always sweetest in the 
concert?' Just as I spoke, Dick came running in, 

* O papa, papa, she is gone from us ; my sister 
Livy is gone from us for ever !' — ' Gone child !'— 

• Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in 
post-chaise : and one of them kissed her, and said 
he would die for her ; and she cried very much, 
and was for coming back ; but he pursuaded her 
again, and she went into the chaise, and said, ' O, 
what will my poor papa do, when he knows I am 
undone.' — ' Now then,' cried I, ' my children, go 
and be miserable; for we shall never enjoy one 
hour more. And O, may heaven's everlasting 
fury light upon him and his ! Thus to rob me of 
my child ! And sure it will, for taking back my 
sweet innocent that I was leading up to heaven. 
Such sincerity as my child was possessed of! But 
all our earthly happiness is now over. Go, my 
children, go and be miserable and infamous; for 
my heart is broken within me !' — • Father,' cried 
my son, 'is this your fortitude?' — 'Fortitude, 
child? Yes, he shall see I have fortitude! Bring 
me my pistols. I'll pursue the traitor. While he 
is on earth, I'll pursue him. Old as I am he shall 
find I can sting him yet. The villain, perfidious 
villain!' I had by this time reached down my pis- 
tols, when my poor wife, whose passions were not 
so strong as mine, caught me in her arms. ' My 
dearest, dearest husband,' cried she, ' the bible is 
the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. 
Open that, my love, and read our anguish into 
patience, for she has vilely deceived us.' — ' Indeed 
sir,' resumed my son, after a pause, ' your rage is 
too violent and unbecoming. You should be my 
mother's comforter, and you increase her pain. 
It ill suited you and your reverend character thus 
to curse your greatest enemy ; you should not have 
cursed him, villain as he is.' — ' I did not curse 
him, child, did I V — ' Indeed, sir, you did ; you 
cursed him twice.' — 'Then may heaven forgive 
rhe and him, if I did. . And now, my son, I see it 



was more than human benevolence that first 
taught us to bless our enemies. Blessed be his 
holy name for all the good he hath given, and for 
all that he hath taken away. But it is not, it is 
not a small- distress that can wring tears from 
these old eyes, that have not wept for so many 
years. My child! To undo my darling! May 
confusion seize ! — Heaven forgive me, what am I 
about to say? — You may remember, my love, how 
good she was, and how charming; till this vile 
moment, all her care was to make us happy. Had 
she but died ! But she is gone, the honour of our 
family is contaminated, and I must look out for 
happiness in other worlds than here. — But my 
child, you saw them go off; perhaps he forced her 
away ? If he forced her, she may yet be innocent.' 
— ' Ah, no, sir,' cried the child; ' he only kissed 
her, and called her his angel, and she wept very 
much, and leaned upon him, and they drove off 
very fast.' — ' She's an ungrateful creature,' cried 
my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, 
' to use us thus, she never had the least constraint 
put upon her affections. The vile strumpet has 
basely deserted her parents without any provoca- 
tion, thus to bring your gray hairs to the grave : 
and I must shortly follow.' 

In this manner that night, the first of our real 
misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of com- 
plaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiam. I 
determined, however to find out our betrayer, 
wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The 
next morning we missed our wretched child at 
breakfast, where she used to give life and cheer- 
fulness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to 
ease her heart by repreaches. * Never,' cried she, 
' shall that vilest stain of our family aerain darken 
these harmless doors. I will never call her 
daughter more. No, let the strumpet live with 
her vile seducer ; she may bring us to shame, but 
she shall never more deceive us.' 

» Wife,' said I, ' do not talk thus hardly ; my 
detestation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but 
ever shall this house and this heart be open to a 
poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she 
returns from her transgressions, the more welcome 
shall she be to me. For the first time the very 
best may err; art may persuade, arid novelty 
spread out its charm. The first fault is the child 
of simplicity; but every other the offspring of 
guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be wel- 
come to this heart and this house, though stained 
with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to 
the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly 
on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My 
son, bring hither my bible and my staff; I will 
pursue her, wherever she is ; and though I can- 
not save her from shame, I may prevent the 
continuance of her iniquity.' 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

; The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue.' ' 

Though the child could not describe the gen- 
tleman's person who handed his sister into the 
post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon 
our young landlord, whose character for such 
intrigues was but too well known. I therefore 
directed my steps towards Thornhill-castle, re- 
solving to upbraid him, and, if possible, to bring 
back my daughter ; but before I reached his seat, 
I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he 



154 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



saw a young lady, resembling my daughter, in a 
post-chaise with a gentleman, whom by the de- 
scription, I could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, 
and that they drove very fast. This information, 
however, did by no means satisfy me ; I therefore, 
went to the young 'squire's, and though it was yet 
early, insisted upon seeing him immediately : he 
soon appeared with the most open familiar air, 
and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter's 
elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was 
quite a stranger to it. I now therefore condemned 
my former suspicions, and could turn them only 
on Mr. Burchell, who I recollected had of late 
several private conferences with her ; but the ap- 
pearance of another witness left me no room to 
doubt his villany, who averred that he and my 
daughter had actually gone towards the Wells, 
about thirty miles off, where there was a great 
deal of company. Being driven to that state of 
mind in which we all are more ready to act precipi- 
tately than to reason right, I never debated with 
myself, whether these accounts might not have 
been given by persons purposely placed in my 
way, to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my 
daughter and her fancied deluder thither. 1 
walked along with earnestness, and inquired of 
several by the way ; but received no accounts, till 
entering the town, I was met by a person on 
horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at 
the 'squire's, and he assured me, that ifJt followed 
them to the races, which were but thirty miles 
farther, I might depend upon overtaking them ; 
for he had seen them dance there tbe night before, 
and the whole assembly seemed charmed with my 
daughter's performance. Early the next day I 
walked forward to the races, and about four in the 
afternoon I came upon the course. The company 
made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly 
employed in one pursuit, that of pleasure ; how 
different from mine, that of' reclaiming a lost 
child to virtue ! I thought I perceived Mr. Bur- 
chell at some distance from me; but, as if he dread- 
ed an interview, upon my approaching him, he 
mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no more. 

I now reflected that it would be to no purpose 
to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to re- 
turn home to an innocent family, who wanted my 
assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and 
the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a fe- 
ver, the symptoms of which I perceived before I 
came off the course. This was another unexpected 
stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant 
from home ; however, I retired to a little alehouse 
by the road side ; and in this place, the usual re- 
treat of indigence and frugality, I laid me_ down 
patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I lan- 
guished here for nearly three weeks ; but at last my 
constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided 
with money to defray the expenses of my enter- 
tainment. It is possible the anxiety from this 
last circumstance alone might have brought on a 
relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller who 
stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This per- 
son was no other than the philanthropic bookseller 
in St. Paul's Church-yard, who has written so 
many little books for children ; he called himself 
their friend ; but he was the friend of all mankind. 
He was no sooner alighted but he was in haste to 
be gone ; for he was ever on business of the ut- 
most importance, and was at that time actually 
compiling materials for the history of one Mr. 
Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this 



good-natured man's red-pimpled face ; for he had 
published for me against the deuterogamists of 
the age, and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to 
be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, there- 
fore, as I was yet but weak, I was resolved to Te- 
turn home by easy journeys of ten miles a da7- 

My health and usual tranquillity were almost 
restored, and I now condemned that pride which 
had made me refractory to the hand of correction. 
Man little knows what calamities are beyond his 
patience to bear till he tries them ; as in ascend- 
ing the heights of ambition, which look bright 
from below, every step we rise shows us some 
new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappoint- 
ment; so in our descent from the summits of 
pleasure, though the vale of misery below, may 
appear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy 
mind, still attentive to its own amusements, finds, 
as we descend, something to flatter and to please. 
Still as we approach, the darkest objects appear to 
brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to 
its gloomy situation. 

I now proceeded forward, and had walked about 
two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a 
distance like a waggon, which I was resolved to 
overtake ; but when I came up with it, found it 
to be a strolling company's cart, that was carrying 
their scenes and other theatrical furniture to the 
next village, where they were to exhibit. 

The cart was attended only by the person who 
drove it, and one of the company ; as the rest of 
the players were to follow the ensuing day. ' Good 
company upon the road,' says the proverb, ' is the 
shortest cut.' I therefore entered into conversa- 
tion with the poor player ; and as I once had some 
theatrical powers myself, I descanted on such to- 
pics with my usual freedom; but as I was but 
little acquainted with the present state of the 
stage, I demanded who were the present theatri- 
cal writers in vogue, who the Drydens and Ot- 
ways of the day? ' I fancy, sir,' cried the player, 
' few of our modern dramatists would think them- 
selves much honoured by being compared to the 
writers you mention. Dryden's and Rowe's man- 
ner, sir, are quite out cf fashion : our taste has 
gone back a whole century ; Fletcher, Ben Ton- 
son, and all the plays of Shakspeare, are the only 
things that go down.' — ' How !' cried I, 'is it pos- 
sible that the present age can be pleased with that 
antiquated dialect, that obsolete humour, those 
over-charged characters, which abound in the 
works you mention ?' — ' Sir,' returned my compa- 
nion, ' the public think nothing about dialect, or hu- 
mour, or character ; for that is none of their busi- 
ness; they only.go to be amused, and find themselves 
happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, under 
the sanction of Jonson's or Shakspeare's name.'— 
' So then, I suppose,' cried I, ' that our modern 
dramatists are rather imitators of Shakspeare than 
of nature.' — ' To say the truth,' returned my com- 
panion, ' I don't know that they imitate any thing 
at all ; nor indeed does the public require it o! 
them : it is not the composition of the piece, but 
the number of starts and attitudes that may be 
introduced into it, that elicits applause. I have 
known a piece with not one jest in the whole, 
shrugged into popularity, and another saved by 
the poet's throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir 
the works of Congreve and Farquhar have too 
much wit in them for the present taste ; our mo- 
dern dialect is much more natural.' 
By this time the equipage of the strolling coru- 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



155 



pany was arrived at the village, which, it seems, 
had been apprised of our approach, and was come 
out to gaze at us ; for my companion observed, 
that strollers always have more spectators without 
doors than within. I did not consider the impro- 
priety of my being in such company, till I saw a 
mob gather about me. I therefore took shelter, 
as fast as possible, in the first alehouse that of- 
fered ; and being shown into the common room, 
was accosted by a very well dressed gentleman, 
who demanded, whether I was the real chaplain of 
the company, or whether it was only to be my mas- 
querade character in the play. Upon my inform- 
ing him of the truth, and that I did not belong in 
any sort to the company, he was condescending 
enough to desire me and the player to partake in 
a bowl of punch, over which he discussed modern 
politics with great earnestness and interest I 
set him down in my own mind for nothing less 
than a parliament-man at least ; but was almost 
confirmed in my conjectures, when upon asking 
what there was in the house for supper, he in- 
sisted that the player and I should sup with him 
at his house; with which request, after some en- 
treaties, we were prevailed on to comply. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The description of a person discontented with the present 
government, and apprehensive of the loss of our liber- 
ties. 

The house where we were to be entertained lying 
at a small distance from the village, our inviter 
observed, that as the coach was not ready, he 
would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived at 
one of the most magnificent mansions I had 
seen in that part of the country. The apartment 
into which we were shown was perfectly elegant 
and modern ; he went to give orders for supper, 
while the player, with a wink, observed that we 
were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon re- 
turned, an elegant supper was brought in, two or 
three ladies in an easy dishabille were introduced, 
and the conversation began with some sprightli- 
ness. Politics, however, was the subject on 
which our entertainer chiefly expatiated ; for he 
asserted that liberty was at once his boast and his 
terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me 
if I had seen the last Monitor, to which replying 
in the negative, ' What, nor the Auditor, I sup- 
pose V cried he. ' Neither, sir,' returned I. — 
' That's strange, very strange,' replied my enter- 
tertainer. ' Now, I read all the politics that come 
out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the 
Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall 
Evening, the seventeen Magazines, and the two 
Reviews ; and though they hate each other, I love 
hem all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton's 
boast, and by all my coal mines in Cornwall, I 
reverence its guardians.' ' Then it is to be hoped,' 
cried I, ' you reverence the king.' — ' Yes,' returned 
my entertainer, ' when he does what we would 
have him ; but if he goes on as he has done of 
late, I'll never trouble myself more with his mat- 
ters. I say nothing. I think only. I could have 
directed some things better. I don't think there 
has been a sufficient number of advisers ; he should 
advise with every person willing to give him ad- 
vice, and then we should have things done in 
another guess manner.' 



' I wish,' cried I, ' that such intruding advisers 
were fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty 
of honest men to assist the weaker side of our con- 
stitution, that sacred power that has for some 
years been every day declining, and losing its due 
share of influence in the state. But these igno- 
rants still continue the cry of liberty, and if they 
have any weight, basely throw it into the subsid- 
ing scale.' 

« How,' cried one of the ladies, ' do I live to see 
one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty. 
and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred 
gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons !* 
' Can it be possible,' cried our entertainer, ' that 
there should be any found at present advocates for 
slavery ? Any who are for meanly giving up the 
privileges of Britons ? Can any, sir, be so ab- 
ject V 

' No, sir,' replied I, ' I am for liberty, that at- 
tribute of gods ! glorious liberty ! that theme of 
modern declamation. I would have all men 
kings, I would be a king myself. We have all 
naturally an equal right to the throne ; we are all 
originally equal. This is my opinion, and was 
once the opinion of a set of honest men who were 
called levellers. They tried to erect themselves 
into a community, where all should be equally 
free. But, alas ! it would never an swer; for there 
were some among them stronger, and some more 
cunning than others, and these became masters 
of the rest; for as sure as your groom rides 
your horses, because he is a cunninger animal 
than they, so surely will the animal that is cun- 
ninger or stronger than he, sit upon his shoul- 
ders in turn. Since, then, it is entailed upon 
humanity to submit, and some are born to com- 
mand and others to obey, the question is, as there 
must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them 
in the same house with us, or in the same village, 
or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now, sir, 
for my own part, as I naturally hate the face' of a 
tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me, the 
better pleased am I. The generality of mankind 
also are of my way of thinking, and have unani- 
mously created one king, whose election at once 
diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts ty- 
ranny at the greatest distance from the greatest 
number of people. Now, the great, who were ty- 
rants themselves before the election of one tyrant, 
are naturally averse to a power raised over them, 
and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the 
subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, 
therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as 
possible ; because whatever they take from that, 
is naturally restored to themselves ; and all they 
have to do in the state, is to undermine the single 
tyrant, by which they resume their primeval 
authority. Now, the state may be so circumstanced, 
or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opu- 
lence so minded, as all to conspire in carrying on 
this business of undermining monarchy. For, 
in the first place, if the circumstances of our 
state be such as to favour the accumulation of 
wealth, and make the opulent still more rich, this 
will increase their ambition. An accumulation of 
wealth, however, must necessarily be the conse- 
quence, when as at present more riches flow in 
from external commerce than rise from internal 
industry: for external commerce can only be 
managed to advantage by the rich, and they have 
also at the same time all the emoluments arising 
from internal industry; so that the rich, with us 



156 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have 
but one. For this reason, wealth in all commer- 
cial states is found to accumulate, and all such 
have hitherto in time become aristocratical. Again, 
the very laws also of this country may contribute 
to the accumulation of wealth » as when by their 
means the natural ties that bind the rich and the 
poor together are broken, and it is ordained that 
the rich shall only marry the rich ; or when the 
learned are held unqualified to serve their country 
as counsellors, merely from a defect of opulence, 
and wealth is thus made the object of a wise man's 
ambition : by these means, I say, and such means 
as these, riches will accumulate. Now, the pos- 
sessor of accumulated wealth, when furnished with 
the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other 
method to employ the superfluity of his fortune 
but in purchasing power. That is, differently 
speaking, in making dependents, by purchasing 
the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who 
are willing to bear the mortification of contiguous 
tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent man 
generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest 
of the people; and the polity abounding in accu- 
mulated wealth, may be compared to a Cartesian 
system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, 
however, who are willing to move in a great man's 
vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the rab- 
ble of mankind, whose souls and whose education 
are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing 
of liberty except the name. But there must still 
be a large number of the people without the sphere 
of the opulent man's influence, namely, that order 
of men which subsists between the very rich and 
the very rabble ; those men who are possessed of 
too large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring 
man in power, and yet are too poor to set up for 
tyranny themselves. In this middle order of 
mankind are generally to be found all the arts, 
wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone 
is known to be the true preserver of freedom, and 
maybe called the people. Now it may happen, 
that this middle order of mankind may lose all its 
influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner 
drowned in that of the rabble ; for if the fortune 
sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give 
his voice in state affairs, be ten times less than 
was judged sufficient upon forming the constitu- 
tion ; it is evident that great numbers of the rab- 
ble will thus be introduced into the political sys- 
tem, and they, ever moving in the vortex of the 
great, will follow where greatness shall direct. In 
such a state, therefore, all that the middle order 
has left, is to preserve the prerogative and privi- 
leges of the one principal governor with the most 
sacred circumspection. For he divides the power 
of the rich, and calls off the great from falling with 
tenfold weight on the middle order placed beneath 
them. The middle order may be compared to a 
town of which the opulent are forming the siege, 
and to which the governor from without is hasten- 
ing the relief. While the besiegers are in dread 
of an enemy over them, it is but natural to offer 
tho town the most specious terms ; to flatter them 
with sounds, and amuse them with privileges ; 
but if they once defeat the governor from behind, 
the walls of the town will be but a small defence 
to its inhabitants. What they may then expect 
may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, 
Genoa, or "Venice, where the laws govern the 
poor, and the rich govern the laws. I am then 
for, and would die for, monarchy, sacred monar- 



chy ; for if there be any thing sacred amongst men, 
it must be the anointed sovereign of his people, 
and every diminution of his power, in war or in 
peace, is an infringement upon the real liberties 
of the subject. The sounds of liberty, patriotism, 
and Britons, have already done much ; it is to be 
hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent 
their ever doing more. I have known many of 
those pretended champions for liberty in my time, 
yet I do not remember one that was not in his 
heart and in his family a tyrant.' 

My warmth, I found, had lengthened this har- 
angue beyond the rules of good breeding ; but the 
impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to 
interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. 'What!' 
cried he, ' then I have been all this while enter- 
taining a Jesuit in parson's clothes ; but by all the 
coal mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my 
name be Wilkinson.' I now found I had gone too 
far, and asked pardon for the warmth with which 
I had spoken. ' Pardon !' returned he in afury ; ' I 
think such principles demand ten thousand par- 
dons. What ! give up liberty, property, and, as 
the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled with 
wooden shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your marching 
out of this house immediately, to prevent worse 
consequences. Sir, I insist upon it.' I was going 
to repeat my remonstrances ; but just then we 
heard a footman rap at the door, and the two ladies 
cried out, ' As sure as death, there is our master 
and mistress come home.' It seems my entertainer 
was all this while only the butler, who, in hi3 
master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and 
be for a while the gentleman himself; and, to say 
the truth, he talked politics as well as most coun- 
try gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed 
my confusion, upon seeing the gentleman and lady 
enter; nor was their surprise, at finding such 
company and good cheer, less than ours. ' Gen- 
tlemen,' cried the real master of the house to me 
and my companion, ' my wife and I are your most 
humble servants ; but I protest this is so unex- 
pected a favour, that we almost sink under the 
obligation.' However unexpected our company 
might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more 
so to us, and I was struck dumb with the appre- 
hensions of my own absurdity, when whom should 
I next see enter the room but my dear Miss Ara- 
bella Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be 
married to my son George ; but whose match was 
broken off, as already related. As soon as she saw 
me, she flew to my arms with the utmost joy. 
* My dear sir,' cried she, ' to what happy accident 
is it that we owe so unexpected a visit? I am 
sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when 
they find that they have got the good Doctor 
Primrose for their guest.' Upon hearing my name, 
the old gentleman and lady very politely stepped 
up, and welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. 
Nor could they forbear smiling upon being in- 
formed of the nature of my present visit; but the 
unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed dis- 
posed to turn away, was, at my intercession, for- 
given. 

Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house be- 
longed, now insisted upon having the pleasure of 
my stay for some days, and as their niece, my 
charming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, 
had been formed under my own instructions, 
ioined in their entreaties, I complied. That night 
T was shown to a magnificent chamber, and the 
next morning early, Miss Wilmot desired to walk 



THE VfCAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



157 



with me in the garden which was decorated in the 
modern manner. After some time spent in point- 
ing out the beauties of the place, she inquired, with 
seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from 
my son George. ' Alas ! madam,' cried I, 'he has 
now been nearly three years absent, without ever 
writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know 
not ; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness 
more. No, my dear madam, we shall never more 
see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our 
fireside at Wakefield. My little family are now 
dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not 
only want, but infamy upon us.' The good- 
natured girl let fall a tear at this account : but as 
I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I for- 
bore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It 
was, however, some consolation to me, to find that 
time had made no alteration in her affections, and 
that she had rejected several offers that had been 
made her since our leaving her part of the coun- 
try. She led me round all the extensive improve- 
ments of the place, pointing to the several walks 
and arbours, and at the same time catching from 
every object a hint for some new question relative 
to my son. In this manner we spent the after- 
noon, till the bell summoned us to dinner, where 
we found the manager of the strolling company 
that I mentioned before, who was come to dispose 
of tickets for the Fair Penitent, which was to be 
acted that evening ; the part of Horatio by a young 
gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. 
He seemed to be very warm in the praise of the 
new performer, and averred that he never saw any 
who bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he ob- 
served, was not learned in a day; ' but this gen- 
tleman,' continued he, ' seems born to tread the 
stage. His voice, his figure, and attitudes are all 
admirable. We caught him up accidentally in our 
journey down.' This account in some measure 
excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the 
ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to 
the play-house, which was no other than a bain. 
As the company with which I went was incontest- 
ably the chief of the place, we were received with 
the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat 
of the theatre, where we sat for some time with 
no small impatience to see Horatio make his ap- 
pearance. The new performer advanced at last ; 
and let parents think of my sensations by their 
own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. 
He was going to begin ; when turning his eyes 
upon the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot 
and me, and stood at once speechless and immov- 
able. 

The actors behind the scenes, who ascribed this 
pause to his natural timidity, attempted to en- 
courage him; but, instead of going on, he burst 
into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I 
don't know what were my feelings on this occasion ; 
for they succeeded with too much rapidity for de- 
scription; but I was soon awakened from this 
disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot ; who, paie, 
and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct 
her back to her uncle's. When got home, Mr. 
Arnold, who was yet a stranger to our extraordi- 
nary behaviour, being informed that the new 
performer was my son, sent his coach, and an in- 
vitation, for him ; and as he persisted in his re- 
fusal to appear again upon the stage the players 
put another in his place and we soon had him with 
us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, 
and I received him with my ssual transport; for 



I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss 
Wilmot's reception was mixed with seeming neg- 
lect, and yet I could perceive she acted a studied 
part. The tumult of her mind seemed not abated ; 
she said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, 
and then laughed loud at her own want of mean- 
ing. At intervals, she would take a sly peep at 
the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of 
irresistible beauty ; and often would ask questions,, 
without giving any manner of attention to the 
answers. 






CHAPTER XX. 



The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty,, 
but losing content. 

After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely 
offered to send a couple of her footmen for my 
son's baggage, which he at first seemed to decline ; 
but upon her pressing the request, he was obliged 
to inform her, that a stick and a wallet were all 
the moveable things upon this earth that he could 
boast of. ' Why, ay, my son,' cried I, ' you left 
me but poor, and poor I find you are come back ;. 
and yet I make no doubt you have seen a great 
deal of the world.' — ' Yes, sir,' replied my son, 
' but travelling after fortune, is not the way to se- 
cure her ; and, indeed, of late, I have desisted from 
the pursuit.' — ' I fancy, sir,' cried Mrs. Arnold, 
1 that the account of your adventures would be 
amusing ; the first part of them I have often heard 
from my niece; but could the company prevail 
for the rest, it would be an additional obligation. 
— ' Madam,' replied my son, ' I promise you thf 
pleasure you have in hearing, will not be half sc 
great as my vanity in repeating them, and yet irr 
the whole narrative I can scarce promise you one 
adventure, as my account is rather of what I saw, 
than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, 
which you all know, was great ; but though it dis- 
tressed, it could not sink me. No person ever 
had a better knack at hoping than I. The less 
kind I found fortune at one time, the more I ex- 
pected from her another, and being now at the 
bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might 
lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, 
therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no 
way uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as the 
birds that carolled by the road, and comforted my- 
self with reflecting, that London was the mart 
where abilities of every kind were sure of meet- 
ing distinction and reward. 

' Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care 
was to deliver your letter of recommendation to 
our cousin, who was himself in little better cir- 
cumstances than I. My first scheme, you know- 
sir, was to be an usher at an academy, and I a-sked 
his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the 
proposal with a true sardonic grin. Ay, cried he, 
this is indeed a very pretty career, that has been 
chalked out for you. I have keen an usher at a 
boarding school myself; and may I die by an 
anodyne necklace, but I had rather be an under- 
turnkey in Newgate. I was up early and late : I 
was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly 
face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, 
and never permitted to stir out to meet civility 
abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school ? 
Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred 
an apprentice to the business?— No.— Then you 
won't do for a school. Can you dress the boy's 



158 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



hair ? — No. — Then you won't do for a school. Have 
you had the small pox? — No. — Then you won't do 
'for a school. Can you lie three in a bed? — No. — 
Then you will never do for a school. Have you 
got a good stomach? — Yes. — Then you will by no 
means do for a school. No, sir ; if you are for a 
genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years 
as an apprentice to turn a cutler's wheel; but 
avoid a school by any means. Yet come, con- 
tinued he, I see you are a lad of spirit and some 
learning, what do you think of commencing author, 
like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of 
men of genius starving at the trade : at present 
I'll show you forty very dull fellows about town 
that live by it in opulence. All honest jog-trot 
men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write 
history and politics, and are praised : men, sir, who, 
had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives 
have only mended shoes, but never made them. 
* Finding that there was no great degree of gen- 
tility affixed to the character of an usher, I re- 
solved to accept his proposal; and having the 
highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua 
Mater of Grub-street with reverence. I thought 
it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and 
Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess 
of this region as the parent of excellence ; and 
however an intercourse with the world might give 
us good sense, the poverty she entailed I supposed 
to be the true nurse of genius! Big with these 
reflections, I sat down, and finding that the best 
things remained to be said on the wrong side, I 
resolved to write a book that should be wholly 
new. I therefore dressed up three paradoxes with 
some ingenuity. They were false indeed, but 
they were new. The jewels of truth have been 
so often imported by others, that nothing was left 
for me to import but some splendid things that at 
a distance looked every bit as well. Witness, ye 
powers, what fancied importance sat perched upon 
my quill while I was writing. The whole learned 
world, I made no doubt, would rise to oppose my 
systems: but then I was prepared to oppose the 
whole learned world. Like the porcupine I sat 
self-collected, with a quill pointed against every 
opposer.' 

' Well said, my boy,' cried I, ' and what subject 
did you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over 
the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt, 
go on ; you published your paradoxes ; well, and 
what did the learned world say to your paradoxes ?' 
' Sir,' replied my son, ' the learned world said 
nothing to my paradoxes; nothing at all, sir. 
Every man of them was employed in praising his 
'riends and himself, or condemning his enemies; 
and unfortunately as I had neither, I suffered the 
cruelest mortification, — neglect. 

1 As I was meditating one day in a coffeehouse 
on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man happen- 
ing to enter the room, placed himself in the box 
before me, and after some preliminary discourse, 
finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle 
of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new 
edition he was going to give to the world of Pro- 
pertius with notes. This demand necessarily 
aroduced a reply that I had no money ; and that 
concession led him to inquire into the nature of 
my expectations. Finding that my expectations 
were just as great as my purse, I see, cried he, 
you are unacquainted with the town, I'll teach 
you a part of it. Look at these proposals, upon 
these very proposals I have subsisted very com- 



fortably for twelve years. The moment a noble- 
man returns from his travels, a Creolian arrives 
from Jamaica, or a dowager from a country seat, 
I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their 
hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals 
at the breach. If they subscribe readily the first 
time, I renew my request to beg a dedication fee. 
If they let me have that, I smite them once more 
for engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus, 
continued he, I live by vanity, and laugh at it. 
But between ourselves, I am now too well known, 
I should be glad to borrow your face a bit; a 
nobleman of distinction has just returned from 
Italy ; my face is familiar to his porter ; but if yov 
bring this copy of verses, mj life fsr ic you suc- 
ceed, and we divide the spoil. 

4 Bless us, George,' cried I, ' and is this the 
employment of poets now? Do men of their ex- 
alted talents thus stoop to beggary ? Can they so 
far disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic 
of praise for bread ?' 

' Oh, no, sir,' returned he, ' a true poet can never 
be so base ; for wherever there is genius there is 
pride. The creatures I now describe are only 
beggars in ryhme. The real poet, as he braves 
every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward 
to contempt; and none but those who are un- 
worthy protection condescend to solicit it. 

' Having a mind too proud to stoop to such in- 
dignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard 
a second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to 
take a middle course, and write for bread. But I 
was unqualified for a profession where mere in- 
dustry alone was to ensure success. I could not 
suppress my lurking passion for applause ; but 
usually consumed that time in efforts after excel ' 
lence which takes up but little room, wnen it 
should have been more advantageously employed 
in the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. 
My little piece would, therefore, come forth in the 
midst of periodical publications, unnoticed and 
unknown. The public were more importantly 
employed, than to observe the easy simplicity of 
my style, or the harmony of my periods. Sheet 
after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays 
were buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern 
tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while 
Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Phi- 
lanthropos, all wrote better, because they wrote 
faster than I. 

.' Now, therefore, I began to associate with none 
but disappointed authors like myself, who praised, 
deplored, and despised each other. The satisfac- 
tion we found in every celebrated writer's at- 
tempts, was inversely as their merits. I found 
that no genius in another could please me. My 
unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that 
source of comfort. I could neither read nor Avrite 
with satisfaction ; for excellence in another was 
my aversion, and writing was my trade. 

' In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I 
was one day sitting on a bench in St. James's 
Park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had 
been my intimate acquaintance at the university, 
approached me. We saluted each other with some 
hesitation, he almost ashamed of being known to 
one who made so shabby an appearance, and I 
afraid of a repulse. But my suspicion soon va- 
nished ; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a 
very good-natured fellow.' • 

•What did you say, George?' interrupted I, 
Thornhil] was not that his name? It can cer- 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



159 



tainlybe no other than my landlord.'— 'Bless me,' 
cried Mrs. Arnold, 'is Mr. Thornhill so near a 
neighbour of yours ? He has long been a friend 
in our family, and we expect a visit from him 
shortly.' 

' My friend's first care,' continued my son, 'was 
to alter my appearance by a very fine suit of his 
own clothes, and then I was admitted to his table, 
upon the footing of half-friend, half-underling. 
My business was to attend him at auctions, to 
put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to 
take the left hand in his chariot when not filled 
by another, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the 
phrase was, when we had a mind for a frolic. Be- 
sides this, I had twenty other little employments 
in the family. I was to do many small things 
without bidding ; to carry the corkscrew ; to stand 
godfather to all the butler's children ; to sing when 
I was bid ; to be never out of humour ; always to 
be humble ;. and, if I could, to be very happy. 

' In this honourable post, however, I was not 
without a rival. A captain of marines, who was 
formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my 
natron's affections. His mother had been laun- 
dress to a man of quality, and thus he early ac- 
quired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this 
gentleman made it the study of his life to be ac- 
quainted with lords, though he was dismissed 
from several for his stupidity, yet he found many 
of them, that were as dull as himself, that per- 
mitted his assiduities. As flattery was his trade; 
he practised it with the easiest address imagina- 
ble ; but it came awkward and stiff from me ; and 
as every day my patron's desire of flattery in- 
creased, so every hour being better acquainted 
with his defects, I became more unwilling to give 
it. Thus I was once more fairly going to give up 
the field to the captain, when my friend had occa- 
sion for my assistance. This was nothing less 
than to fight a duel for him, with a gentleman 
whose sister it was pretended he had used ill. I 
readily complied with his request ; and though I 
see you are displeased at my conduct, yet as it 
was a debt indispensably due to friendship, I could 
not refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my 
antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of 
finding that the lady was only a woman of the 
town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. 
This piece of service was repaid with the warmest 
professions of gratitude, but as my friend was to 
leave town in a few days, he knew no other me- 
thod of serving me, but by recommending me to 
his uncle, sir William Thornhill, and another no- 
bleman of great distinction who enjoyed a post 
under the government. When he was gone, my 
first care was to carry his recommendatory letter 
to his uncle, a man whose character for every vir ■ 
tue was universal, yet just. I was received by 
his servants with the most hospitable smiles ; for 
the looks of the domestics ever transmit their 
master's benevolence. Being shown into a grand 
apartment, where sir William soon came to me, 
I delivered my message and letter, which he read, 
and after pausing some minutes,— Pray, sir, cried 
he, inform me what you have done for my kins- 
man to deserve this warm recommendation ? But 
I suppose, sir, I guess your merits : you have 
fought for him, and so you would expect a reward 
from me for being the instrument of his vices. 
I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal 
may be some punishment for your guilt ; but still 
more, that it may be some inducement to your 



repentance. — The severity of this rebuke I bore 
patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole 
expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter 
to the great man. As the doors of the nobi- 
lity are almost ever beset with beggars, all ready 
to thrust in some sly petition, I found it no easy 
matter to gain admittance. However, after 
bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, 
I was at last shown into a spacious apartment, 
my letter being previously sent up for his lord- 
ship's inspection. During this anxious interval I 
had full time to look round me. Every thing was 
grand and of happy contrivance ; the paintings, 
the furniture, the gildings, petrified me with awe, 
and raised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I 
to myself, how very great must the possessor of 
all these things be, who carries in his head the 
business of the state, and whose house displays 
half the wealth of a kingdom: sure his genius 
must be unfathomable ! During these awful re 
flections I heard a step come heavily forward. 
Ah, this is the great man himself! No ; it was 
only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard 
soon after. This must be he ! No ; it was only 
the great man's valet de chambre. At last his 
lordship actually made his appearance. — Are you, 
cried he, the bearer of this here letter? I an- 
swered with a bow. I learn by this, continued he, 
as how that — But just at that instant a servant 
delivered him a card, and without taking further 
notice, he went out of the room, and left me to 
digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no 
more of him, till told by a footman that his lord- 
ship was going to his coach at the door. Down I 
immediately followed, and joined my voice to that 
of three or four more, who came, like me, to pe 
tition for favours. His lordship, however, went 
too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door 
with large strides, when I hallooed out to know 
if I was to have any reply. He was by this time 
got in, and muttered an answer, half of which 
only I heard, the other half was lost in the rat- 
tling of his chariot wheels. I stood for some time 
with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one 
that was listening to catch the glorious sounds, 
till looking round me, I found myself alone at his 
lordship's gate. 

' My patience,' continued my son, ' was now 
quite exhausted : stung with the thousand indig- 
nities I had met with, I was willing to cast my- 
self away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. 
I regarded myself as one of those vile things that 
nature had designed should be thrown by into her 
lumber room, there to perish in obscurity. I had 
till, however, half a guinea left, and of that I 
hought fortune herself should not deprive me ; 
but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to 
o instantly and spend it while I had it, and then 
trust to occurrences for the rest. As I was going 
with this resolution it happened that Mr. Crispe's 
office seemed invitingly open to give me a wel- 
come reception. In this office Mr. Crispe kindly 
offers all his majesty's subjects a generous pro- 
mise of £30 a year, for which promise all they 
give in return is their liberty for life, and permis- 
sion to let him transport them to America as 
slaves. I was happy at finding a place where I 
could lose my fears in desperation, and entered 
this cell, for it had the appearance of one, with 
the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a num- 
ber of poor creatures, all in circumstances like 
myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, pre- 



160 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



senting a true epitome of English impatience 
Each untractable soul at variance with fortune, 
•wreaked her injuries on their own hearts: but 
Mr. Crispe at last came down, and all our mur- 
murs were hushed. He deigned to regard me 
with an air of peculiar approbation, and indeed he 
was the first man who for a month past, had talked 
to me with smiles. After a few questions, he 
found I was fit for every thing in the world. He 
paused a while upon the properest means of pro- 
viding for me, and slapping his forehead as if he 
had found it, assured me, that there was at that 
time an embassy talked of from the synod of 
Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, and that 
he would use his interest to get me made secre- 
tary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow 
lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there 
was something so magnificent in the sound. I 
fairly, therefore, divided my half guinea, one half 
of which went to be added to his thirty thousand 
pounds, and with the other half I resolved to go 
to the next tavern, to be there more happy than he. 

' As I was going out with that resolution, I was 
met at the door by the captain of a ship, with 
whom I had formerly some little acquaintance, 
and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of 
punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my 
circumstances, he assured me that I was on the 
very point of ruin in listening to the office-keep- 
er's promises ; for that he only designed to sell 
me to the plantations. — But, continued he, I fancy 
you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily 
put into a genteel way of bread. Take my ad- 
vice. My ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam : 
what if you go in her as a passenger ? The mo- 
ment you land, all you have to do is to teach the 
.Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you'll get 
pupils and money enough. I suppose you under- 
stand English, added he, by this time, or the 
deuce is in it. — I confidently assured him of that; 
but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would 
be willing to learn English. He affirmed, with an 
oath, that they were fond of it to distraction ; and 
upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, 
and embarked the next day to teach the Dutch 
English in Holland. The wind was fair, our 
voyage short, and after having paid my passage 
with half my moveables, I found myself as fallen 
from the skies, a stranger in one of the principal 
streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was 
unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in 
teaching. I addressed myself, therefore, to two 
or three of those I met, whose appearance seemed 
most promising ; but it was impossible to make 
ourselves mutually understood. It was not till 
this very moment I recollected, that in order to 
teach the Dutchmen English, it was necessary 
that they should first teach me Dutch. How I 
came to overlook so obvious an objection is tome 
amazing ; but certain it is I overlooked it. 

'This scheme thus blown up, I had some 
thoughts of fairly shipping back to England again; 
but falling in with an Irish student who was re- 
turning from Louvain, our conversation turning 
upon topics of literature, (for, by the way, it may 
be observed that I always forgot the meanness of 
my circumstances when I could converse upon 
such subjects,) from him I learned that there were 
not two men in his whole university who under- 
stood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly re- 
solved to travel to Louvain, and there live by 
teaching Greek : and in this design I was heart- 



ened by my brother student, who threw out some 
hints that a fortune might be got by it. 

' I set boldly forward the next morning. Every 
day lessened the burden of my moveables, like 
^Esop and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for 
my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When 
I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go 
sneaking to the lower professors, but openly ten- 
dered my talents to the principal himself. I went, 
had admittance, and offered him my service as a 
master of the Greek language, which I had been 
told was a desideratum in his university. The 
principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities ; 
but of these I offered to convince him, by turning 
a part of any Greek author he should fix upon 
into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my 
proposal, he addressed me thus : — You see me, 
young man; I never learned Greek, and 1 don't 
find that I have ever missed it. I have had a 
doctor's cap and gown without Greek ; I have ten 
thousand florins a-year without Greek ; I eat 
heartily without Greek ; and, in short, continued 
he, as I don't know Greek, 1 do not believe there 
is any good in it. 

' I was now too far from home to think of re- 
turning ; so I resolved to go forward. I had some 
knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and I 
now turned what was once my amusement into a 
present means of subsistence. I passed among 
the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among 
such of the French as were poor enough to be very 
merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in pro- 
portion to their wants. Whenever I approached 
a peasant's house towards nightfall, I played one 
of my most merry tunes, and that procured me 
not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next 
day. I once or twice attempted to play for people 
of fashion ; but they always thought my perform- 
ance odious, and never rewarded me even with a 
trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, 
as whenever I used in better days to play for com- 
pany, when playing was my amusement, my mu- 
sic never failed to throw them into raptures, and 
the ladies especially; but as it was now my only 
means it was received with contempt ; a proof how 
ready the world is to underrate those talents by 
which a man is supported. 

' In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no 
design but just to look about me, and then go for- 
ward. The people of Paris are much fonder of 
strangers that have money, than of those that have 
wit. As I could not boast of much of either, I 
was no great favourite. After walking about the 
town four or five days, and seeing the outsides of 
the best houses, I was preparing to leave this re- 
treat of venal hospitality, when passing through 
one of the principal streets, whom should I meet 
but our cousin, to whom you first recommended 
me. This meeting was very agreeable to me, and I 
believe not displeasing to him. He inquired into 
the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed 
me of his own business there, which was to collect 
pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all 
kinds, for a gentleman in London, who had just 
stepped into taste and a large fortune. I was the 
more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon 
for this office, as he himself had often assured me 
he knew nothing of the matter. Upon asking 
how he had been taught the art of a cognoscento so 
very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was 
more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict 
adherence to two rules : the one, always to observe 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



161 



the picture might have been better if the painter 
had taken more pains; and the other, to praise 
the works of Pietro Perugino. — But, says he, as I 
once taught you how to be an author in London, 
I'll now undertake to instruct you in the art of 
picture-buying at Paris. 

' With this proposal I very readily closed, as it 
was living, and now all my ambition was to live. 
I went, therefore, to his lodgings, improved my 
dress by his assistance, and after some time ac- 
companied him to auctions of pictures, where 
English gentry were expected to be purchasers. 
i was not a little surprised at his intimacy with 
>eople of the best fashion, who referred themselves 
o his judgment upon every picture or medal, as 
o an unerring standard of taste. He made very 
,ood use of my assistance upon these occasions ; 
or when asked his opinion, he would gravely take 
me aside and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return, 
and assure the company that he could give no 
opinion upon an affair of so much importance. 
Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more 
important assurance. I remember to have seen 
him, after giving his opinion that the colouring 
of a picture was not mellow enough, very deliber- 
ately take a brush with brown varnish, that was 
iccidentally lying by, and rub it over the piece 
ivith great composure before all the company, and 
then ask if he had not improved the tints. 

I When he had finished his commission in Paris, 
he left me strongly recommended to several men 
of distinction as a person very well qualified for a 
travelling tutor ; and after some time, I was em- 
ployed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought 
his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on 
his tour through Europe. I was to be the young 
gentleman's governor ; but with a proviso, that he 
should always be permitted to govern himself. My 
pupil, in fact, understood the art of guiding in 
money concerns much better than I. He was heir 
to a fortune of about two hundred thousand 
pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies ; 
and his guardians, to qualify him for the manage- 
ment of it, had bound him apprentice to an attor- 
ney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion ; all 
his questions on the road were how money might 
be saved ; which was the leasu expensive course 
of travel ; whether any thing could be bought that 
could turn to account when disposed of again in 
London ? Such curiosities on the way as could be 
seen for nothing he was ready enough to look at; 
but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usu- 
ally asserted that he had been told they were not 
worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he would 
not observe how amazingly expensive travelling 
was ! and all this though he was not yet twenty- 
one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a 
walk to look at the port and shipping, he inquired 
the expense of the passage by sea home to Eng- 
land. This he was informed was but a trifle com- 
pared to his returning by land ; he was, therefore, 
unable to withstand the temptation ; so paying 
me the small part of my salary that was due, he 
took leave, and embarked with only one attendant 
for London. 

I I now, therefore, was left once more upon the 
world at large ; but then it was a thing I was used 
to. However, my skill in music could avail me 
nothing in a country where every peasant was a 
better musician than I : but by this time I had ac- 
quired another talent, which answered my purpose 
as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In 



all the foreign universities and convents there are 
upon certain days philosophical theses maintained 
against every adventitious disputant ; for which, 
if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he 
can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a 
bed for one night. In this manner, therefore, I 
fought my way towards England, walked along 
from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, 
and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the 
picture. My remarks, however are but few : I 
found that monarchy was the best government for 
the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the 
rich. I found that riches in general were in every 
country another name for freedom ; and that no 
man is so fond of liberty himself, as not to be de- 
sirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in 
society to his own. 

' Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay 
my respects first to you, and then to enlist as a 
volunteer in the first expedition that was going 
forward ; but on my journey down, my resolutions 
were changed, by meeting an old acquaintance, 
who, I found, belonged to a company of comedians 
that were going to make a summer campaign in 
the country. The company seemed not much to 
disapprove of me for an associate. They all, how- 
ever, apprized me of the importance of the task at 
which I aimed; that the public was a many- 
headed monster, and that only such as had very 
good heads could please it : that acting was not to 
be learned in a day ; and that without some tradi- 
tional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and 
only on the stage, these hundred years. I could 
never pretend to please. The next difficulty was 
in fitting me with parts, as almost every character 
was in keeping. I was driven for some time from 
one character to another, till at last Horatio was 
fixed upon, which the presence of the present com- 
pany has happily hindered me from acting.' 



CHAPTER XXL 

The short continuance of friendship among the vicious, 
which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction. 

My son's account was too long to be delivered at 
once, the first part of it was begun that night, and 
he was concluding the rest after dinner the next 
day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equi- 
page at the door seemed to make a pause in the 
general satisfaction. The butler, who was now 
become my friend in the family, informed me with 
a whisper, that the 'squire had already made some 
overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and 
uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon 
Mr. Thornhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing 
my son and me, to start back ; but I readily im- 
puted that to surprise, and not displeasure. How- 
ever, upon our advancing to salute him, he re- 
turned our greeting with the most apparent can- 
dour ; and after a short time his presence served 
only to increase the general good humour. 

After tea he called me aside, to inquire after 
my daughter : but upon informing him that my 
inquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly sur- 
prised ; adding, that he had been since frequently 
at my house, in order to comfort the rest of my 
family, whom he left perfectly well. He then 
asked if I had communicated her misfortune to 
Miss Wilmot, or my son ; and upon my replying 
that I had not told them as yet, he greatly ap- 
proved my prudence and precaution, desiring me 
L 






162 



GOLDSMITH S SCELMLANEIOUS WORKS. 



by ail means to keep it a secret ; « For at best, 
cried he, ' it is but divulging one's own infamy ; 
and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we 
all imagine.' We were here interrupted by a ser- 
vant, who came to ask the 'squire in, to stand up 
at country dances : so that he left me quite pleased 
with the interest he seemed to take in my con- 
cerns. His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot, 
were too obvious to be mistaken; and yet she 
seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather 
in compliance to the will of her aunt than from 
real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see 
her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate 
son, which the other could neither extort by his 
fortune nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming 
composure, however, not a little surprised me : we 
had now continued here a week, at the pressing 
instance of Mr. Arnold; but each day the more 
tenderness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. 
Thornhill's friendship seemed proportionally to 
increase for him. 

He had formerly made us the most kind assur- 
ances of using his interest to serve the family ; but 
now his generosity was not confined to promises 
alone ; the morning I designed for my departure, 
Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real plea- 
sure, to inform me of a piece of service he had 
done for his friend George. This was nothing less 
than his having procured him an ensign's com- 
mission in one of the regiments that was going to 
the West Indies, for which he had promised but 
one hundred pounds, his interest being sufficient 
to get an abatement of the other two ; ' As for 
this trifling piece of service,' continued the young 
gentleman, ' I desire no other reward but the 
pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for 
the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable 
to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you 
shall repay me at your leisure.' This was a fa- 
vour we wanted words to express our sense of. I 
readily, therefore, gave my bond for the money, 
and testified as much gratitude as if I never in- 
tended to pay. 

George was to depart for town the next day to 
secure his commission, in pursuance of his gener- 
ous patron's directions, who judged it highly ex- 
pedient to use despatch, lest, in the mean time, 
another should step in with more advantageous 
proposals. The next morning, therefore, our young 
soldier was early prepared for his departure, and 
seemed the only person among us that was not 
affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers 
he was going to encounter, nor the friends' and 
mistress, for Miss Wilmot actually loved him, he 
was leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. 
After he had taken leave of the rest of the com- 
pany, I gave him all that I had, my blessing. 
' And now, my boy,' cried I, ' thou art going to 
fight for thy country, remember how thy grand- 
father fought for his sacred king, when loyalty 
among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and 
imitate him in all but his misfortunes ; if it was a 
misfortune to die with Falkland. Go, my boy, 
and if you fall, though distant, exposed and un- 
wept by those that love you, the most precious 
tears are those with which heaven bedews the un- 
buried head of a soldier.' 

The next morning I took leave of the good 
family, that had been kind enough to entertain me 
so long, not without several expressions of gratitude 
to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them 
in the enjoyment of all that happiness which 



affluence and good breeding procure, and returned 
towards home, despairing of ever finding my 
daughter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to 
spare and forgive her. I was now come within 
about twenty miles of home, having hired a horse 
to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted 
myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held 
dearest upon earth. But the night coming on, I 
put up at a little public house by the road side, 
and asked for the landlord's company over a pint 
of wine. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which 
was the best room in the house, and chatted on 
politics and the news of the country. We hap- 
pened among other topics, to talk of young 'squire 
Thornhill, who the host assured me was hated as 
much as his uncle, sir William, who sometimes 
came down to the country, was loved. He went 
on to observe, that he made it his whole study to 
betray the daughters of such as received him into 
their houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks' 
possession, turned them out unrewarded and 
abandoned to the world. As we continued out 
discourse in this manner, his wife, who had been 
out to get change, returned, and perceiving that 
her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she 
was not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, 
what he did there 1 to which he only replied in an 
ironical way, by drinking her health. ' Mr. 
Symonds,' cried she, ' you use me very ill, and 
ill bear it no longer. Here three parts of the 
business is left for me to do, and the fourth left 
unfinished, while you do nothing but soak with 
the guests all day long, whereas, if a spoonful of 
liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a 
drop.' I now found what she would be at, and 
immediately poured out a glass, which she re- 
ceived with a curtsey, and drinking towards my 
good health, ' sir,' resumed she, ' it is not so much 
for the value of the liquor' I am angry, but one 
cannot help it when the house is going out of the 
windows. If the customers or guests are to be 
dunned, all the burden lies upon my back, he'd as 
lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. 
There, now, above stairs, we have a young woman 
who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I 
don't believe she has got any money, by her over 
civility. I am certain she is very slow of pay- 
ment, and I wish she were put in mind of it.' — 
' What signifies minding her,' cried the host; ' if 
she be slow, she is sure.' — ' I don't know that,' 
replied the wife ; ' but I know that I am sure she 
has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet 
seen the cross of her money.' — ' I suppose, my 
dear,' cried he, ' we shall have it all in a lump.'— 
' In a lump,' cried the other, ' I hope we may get 
it any way ; and that I am resolved we will this 
very night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage.'— 
' Consider, my dear,' cried the husband, ' she is a 
gentlewoman, and deserves more respect.' — ' Aft 
for that,' returned the hostess, 'gentle or simple, 
out she shall pack with a sassarara. Gentry may 
be good things where they take ; but, for my part, 
I never saw much good of them at the sign of the 
Harrow.' Thus saying, she ran up a narrow flight 
of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room 
over head, and I soon perceived by the loudness 
of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, 
that no money was to be had of her lodger. I 
could hear the remonstrances very distinctly; 
• Out, I say; pack out this moment! tramp, thou 
infamous strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou 
won't be the better for these three months. Whati 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIEJLD. 



163 



you trumpery, to come and lake up an honest 
house, without cross or coin to bless yourself with ; 
come along, I say !' — ' O dear madam,' cried the 
stranger, ' pity me, pity a poor abandoned creature, 
for one night, and death will soon do the rest.' I 
instantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child 
Olivia. 1 flew to her rescue, while the woman 
was dragging her along by the hair, and 1" caught 
the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. ' "Welcome, 
any way, welcome, my dearest lost one, my trea- 
sure, to your poor old father's bosom. Though 
the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the 
world that will never forsake thee ; though thou 
hast ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will 
forget them all.'—' O my own dear'— for minutes 
she could say no more, ' my own dearest good 
papa! Could angels be kinder? How do I deserve 
so much ? The villain, I hate him and myself, to 
be a reproach to so much goodness ! You can't 
forgive me. I know you cannot.' — ' Yes, my 
child, from my heart I do forgive thee : only re- 
pent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall 
see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia.' — ' Ah ! 
never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched life 
must be infamy abroad, and shame at home. But 
alas ! papa, you look much paler than you used to 
do. Could such a thing as 1 am give you so much 
uneasiness ? Surely you have too much wisdom 
to take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself.' — 
' Our wisdom, young woman,' replied I. — ' Ah, 
why so cold a name, papa ?' cried she. * This is 
the first time you ever called me by so cold a 
name.' — ' I ask pardon, my darling,' returned Ij 
' But I was going to observe, that wisdom makes 
but a slow defence against trouble, though at last 
a sure one.' 

The landlady now returned to know if we did 
not choose a more genteel apartment; to which 
assenting, we were shown to a room where we 
could converse more freely. After we had talked 
ourselves into some degree of tranquillity, I could 
not avoid desiring some account of the gradations 
that led to her present wretched situation. ' That 
villain, sir,' said she, 'from the first day of our 
meeting, made me honourable, though private 
proposals.' 

' Villain, indeed,' cried I; ' and yet it in some 
measure surprises me, how a person of Mr. Bur- 
chell's good sense, and seeming honour, could be 
guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step 
into a family to undo it.' 

' My dear papa,' returned my daughter, 'you 
labour under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell 
never attempted to deceive me. Instead of that, 
he took every opportunity of privately admon- 
ishing me against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, 
who, I now find was even worse than he repre- 
sented him.'— 'Mr. Thornhill F interrupted I, 
* can it be ?' — ' Yes sir,' returned she, ' it was Mr» 
Thornhill who seduced me, who employed the two 
ladies, as he called them, but who in fact were 
abandoned women of the town, without breeding 
or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices, 
you may remember, would have certainly suc- 
ceeded, but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed 
those reproaches at them, which we all applied to 
ourselves. How he came to have so much influ- 
ence as to defeat their intentions, still remains a 
•ecret to me ; but I am convinced he was ever our 
warmest, sincerest friend.' 

' You amaze me, my dear, ' cried I ; ' but now 
I find my first suspicions of Mr. ThornbilTs base- 



ness were too well grounded : but he can triumph 
in security; for he is rich, and we are poor. But 
tell me, my child; sure it was no small tempta- 
tion that could thus obliterate all the impressions 
of such an education, and so virtuous a disposition 
as thine ?' 

' Indeed, sir,' replied she, ' he owes all his 
triumph to the desire I had of making him, and 
not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of 
our marriage, which was privately performed by 
a popish priest, was no way binding, and that I 
had nothing to trust to but his honour.' — ' What,' 
interrupted I, 'and where you indeed married by 
a priest in orders V — 'Tndeed, sir, we were,' replied 
she, 'though we were both sworn to conceal 
his name.' — ' Why then, my child, come to my 
arms again; and now you area thousand times 
more welcome than before ; for you are now his 
wife to all intents and purposes ; nor can all the 
laws of man, though written upon tables of ada- 
mant, lessen the force of that sacred connexion.' 
' Alas, papa,' replied she, 'you are but little 
acquainted with his villanies ; he has been mar- 
ried already, by the same priest, to six or eight 
wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and 
abandoned.' 

' Has he so ?' cried I, ' then we must hang the 
priest, and you shall inform against him to- 
morrow.' — ' But, sir,' returned she, ' will that be 
right, when I am sworn to secrecy?' — ' My dear,' 
I replied, ' if you have made such a promise I 
cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even 
though it may benefit the public, you must not 
inform against him. In all human institutions, 
a smaller evil is allowed, to procure a greater 
good; as in politics, a province may be giver 
away to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a limb 
may be lopped off, to preserve the body. But in 
religion, the law is written, and inflexible, never 
to do evil. And this law, my child, is right; for 
otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil to procure 
a greater good, certain guilt would be thus in- 
curred, in expectation of contingent advantage. 
And though the advantage should certainly follow, 
yet the interval between commission and advan- 
tage, which is allowed to be guilty may be that in 
which we are called away to answer for the things 
we have done, and the volume of human actions is 
closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear; 
go on.' 

' The very next morning,' continued she, ' I 
found what little expectation I was to have from 
his sincerity. That very morning he introduced 
me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, 
he had deceived, but who lived in contented pros- 
titution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such 
rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my 
infamy in a tumult of pleasure. With this view, 
I danced, dressed, and talked ; but still was un- 
happy. The gentlemen who visited there told me 
every moment of the power of my charms, and 
this only contributed to increase my melancholy, 
as I had thrown all their power quite away. Thus 
each day I grew more pensive, and he more inso- 
lent; till at last the monster had the assurance to 
offer me to a young baronet of his acquaintance. 
Need I describe, sir, how his ingratitude stung 
me? My answer to 'this proposal was almost 
madness. I desired to part. As I was going, he 
offered me a purse ; but I flung it at him with 
indignation, and burst from him in a rage that for 
awhile kept me insensible of the miseries of my 



164 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



situation. But I soon looked rouna me, and saw 
myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one 
friend in the world to apply to. Just in that in- 
terval, a stage coach happening to pass by, I took 
a place, it being my only aim to be driven at a 
distance from a wretch I despised and detested. 
1 was set down here ; where, since my arrival, my 
own anxiety, and this woman's unkindness, have 
been my only companions. The hours of pleasure 
that I have passed with my mamma and sister 
now grow painful tome : their sorrows are much; 
but mine are greater than theirs; for mine are 
mixed with guilt and infamy.' 

' Have patience, my child,' cried I, ' and I hope 
things will yet be better. Take some repose to- 
night, and to-morrow I'll carry you home to your 
mother and the rest of the family ; from whom 
you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman ! 
this has gone to her heart : but she loves you still, 
Olivia, and will forget it.' 




( have here brought you back a poor deluded 
wanderer." 



CHAPTER XXII. 



Offences are easily pardoned when there is love at bottom. 

The next morning I took my daughter behind 
me, and set out on my return home. As we tra- 
velled along, I strove, by every persuasion, to 
calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with 
resolution to bear the presence of her offended 
mother. I took every opportunity, from the pros- 
pect of a fine country, through which we passed, 
to observe how much kinder heaven was to us, 
than we to each other, and that the misfortunes 
of nature's making were very few. I assured her, 
that she should never perceive any change in my 
affections, and that during my life, which yet 
might be long, she might depend upon a guardian 



and an instructor. I armed her against the cen 
sures of the world, showed her that books were 
sweet unreproachmg companions to the miserable 
and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, 
they would at least teach us to endure it.' 

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up 
that night at an inn by the way, within about five 
miles from my house ; and as I was willing to 
prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I 
determined to leave her that night at the inn, 
and to return for her, accompanied by my daugh- 
ter Sophia, early the next morning. It was night 
before we reached our appointed stage ; however, 
after seeing her provided with a decent apart- 
ment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare 
proper refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded 
towards home. And. now my heart caught new 
sensations of pleasure, the nearer I approached 
that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been 
frighted from its nest, my affections out-went my 
haste, and hovered round my little fireside with 
all the rapture of expectation. I called up the 
many fond things I had to say, and anticipated 
the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my 
wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of 
my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night 
waned apace. The labourers of the day were all 
retired to rest ; the lights were out in every cot- 
tage ; no sounds were heard but of the shrilling 
cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at hollow 
distance. I approached my little abode of plea- 
sure, and before I was within a furlong of the 
place, our honest mastiff came running to wel- 
come me. 

It was now near midnight that I came to knock 
at my door — all was still and silent— my heart di- 
lated with unutterable happiness; when to my 
amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a 
blaze of fire, and every aperture red with confla- 
gration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and 
fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed 
my son, who had till this been asleep, and he per- 
ceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife and 
daughter, and all running out, naked, and wild 
with apprehension, recalled me to life with their 
anguish. But it was only to objects of new ter- 
ror ; for the flames had by this time caught the 
roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to 
fall in, while the family stood with silent agony, 
looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed 
upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked 
round me for • my two little ones ; for they were 
not to be seen. O misery ! ' Where,' cried I, 
' where are my little ones V — ' They are burnt to 
death in the flames,' said my wife, calmly, ' and I 
will die with them.' — That moment I heard the 
cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by 
the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. 
* Where, where are my children V cried I, rushing 
through the flames, and bursting the door of the 
chamber in which they were confined, ' where are 
my little ones ?' — ' Here, dear papa ; here we are V 
cried they together, while the flames were just 
catching the bed where they lay. I caught them 
both in my arms, and snatched them through the 
fire as fast as possible, while just as I was got out, 
the roof sunk in. ' Now,' cried I, holding up my 
children, ' now let the flames burn on, and all my 
possessions perish. Here they are ; I have saved 
my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our 
treasures, and we shall yet be happy. We kissed 
our little darlings a thousand times, they clasped 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIKLD 



165 



us round the neck, and seemed to share our trans- 
ports, while their mother laughed and wept by- 
turns. 

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and 
after some time began to perceive that my arm to 
the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. 
It was, therefore, out of my power to give my son 
any assistance, either in attempting to save our 
goods, or preventing the flames spreading to our 
corn. By this time the neighbours were alarmed, 
and came running to our assistance ; but all they 
could do was to stand like t;s, spectators of the 
calamity. My goods, among which were the 
notes, I had reserved for my daughters' fortunes, 
were entirely consumed, except a box with some 
papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three 
things more of little consequence, which my son 
brought away in the beginning. The neighbours 
contributed, however, what they could to lessen 
our distress. They brought us clothes, and fur- 
nished one of our out-houses with kitchen uten- 
sils ; so that by daylight we had another, though 
a wretched dwelling, to retire to. My honest next 
neighbour, and his children, were not the least 
assiduous in providing us with every thing neces- 
sary, and offering whatever consolation untutored 
benevolence could suggest. 

When the fears of my family had subsided, cu- 
riosity to know the cause of my long stay began 
to take place ; having, therefore, informed them 
of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them 
for the reception of our lost one, and though we 
had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I 
was willing to procure her a welcome to what we 
had. This task would have been more difficult 
Dut for our recent calamity, which had humbled 
my wife's pride, and blunted it by more poignant 
afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child 
myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my 
son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting 
the wretched delinquent, who had not the courage 
to look up at her mother; whom no instructions 
of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation ; 
for women have a much stronger sense of female 
error than men. ' Ah, madam,' cried her mother, 
'this is but a poor place you have come to after 
so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can 
afford but little entertainment to persons who 
have kept company only with people of distinc- 
tion. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I 
have suffered very much of late ; but I hope hea- 
ven will forgive you.' During this reception, the 
unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable 
to weep or to reply; but I could not continue a 
silent spectator of her distress ; wherefore as- 
suming a degree of severity in voice and manner, 
which was ever followed with instant submission, 
' I entreat, woman, that my words may now be 
marked once for all : I have here brought you 
back a poor deluded wanderer ; her return to duty 
demands the revival of our tenderness. The real 
hardships of life are now coming fast upon us, let 
us not, therefore, increase them by dissension 
among each other. If we live harmoniously toge- 
gether, we may yet be contented, as there are 
enough of us to shut out the censuring world, and 
keep each other in countenance. The kindness of 
heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours 
be directed by the example. Heaven, we are as- 
sured, is much more pleased to view a repentant 
sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have sup- 
ported a course of undeviating rectitude. And 



this is right : for that single effort by which we 
stop short in that down-hill path to perdition, is 
itself a greater exertion of virtue, than a hundred 
acts of justice.' 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable. 

Some assiduity was now required to make our 
present abode as convenient as possible, and we 
were soon again qualified to enjoy our former se- 
renity. Being disabled myself from assisting my 
son in our usual occupations, I read to my family 
from the few books that were saved, and particu- 
larly from such, as, by amusing the imagination, 
contributed to ease the heart. Our good neigh- 
bours, too, came every day with the kindest con- 
dolence, and fixed a time in which they were all 
to assist at repairing my former dwelling. Honest 
farmer Williams was not last among these visitors ; 
but heartily offered his friendship. He would even 
have renewed his addresses to my daughter ; but 
she rejected them in such a manner as totally re- 
pressed his future solicitations. Her grief seemed 
formed for continuing, and she was the only person 
of our little society that a week did not restore to 
cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing inno- 
cence which once taught her to respect herself, 
and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now 
had taken strong possession of her mind, her 
beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, 
and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. 
Every tender epithet bestowed on her sister 
brought a pang to her heart, and a tear to her eye ; 
and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others 
where it has been, so her former guilt, though 
driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy 
behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her 
care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern 
for her's, collecting such amusing passages of his- 
tory, as a strong memory and some reading could 
suggest. ' Our happiness, my dear,' I would say, 
' is in the power of one who can bring it about a 
thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our fore- 
sight. If example be necessary to prove this, I'll 
give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, 
though sometimes a romancing, historian. 

' Matilda was married very young to a Neapoli- 
tan nobleman of the first quality, and found her- 
self a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. 
As she stood one day caressing her infant son in 
the open window of an apartment which hung over 
the river Volturna, the child, with a sudden spring, 
leaped from her arms into the flood below and dis- 
appeared in a moment. The mother, struck with 
instant surprise, and making an effort to save 
him, plunged in after ; but far from being able to 
assist the infant, she herself, with great difficulty, 
escaped to the opposite shore, just when some 
French soldiers were plundering the country on 
that side, who immediately made her their pri- 
soner. 

* As the war was then carried on between the 
French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, 
they were going at once to perpetrate those two 
extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This 
base resolution, however, was opposed by a young 
officer, who, though their retreat required the 
utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and 
brought her in safety to his native city. Her 
beauty at first caught his eye, her merit soon after 



166 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



nis heart. They were married; he rose to the 
highest posts ; they lived long together and were 
happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never he 
called permanent : after an interval of several 
years, the troops which he commanded having 
met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter 
in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here 
they suffered a siege, and the city at length was 
taken. Few histories can produce more various 
instances of cruelty than those which the French 
and Italians at that time exercised upon each 
other. It was resolved by the victors upon this 
occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ; 
but particularly the husband of the unfortunate 
Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in 
protracting the siege. Their determinations were 
in general executed almost as soon as resolved 
upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the 
executioner with his sword stood ready, while the 
spectators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, 
which was only suspended till the general, who pre- 
sided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this 
interval of anguish and expectation, that Matilda 
came to take her last farewell of her husband and 
deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and 
the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perish- 
ing by a premature death in the river Volturna to 
be the spectator of still greater calamities. The 
general, who was a young man, was struck with 
surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; 
but with still stronger emotions when he heard 
her mention her former dangers. He was her 
son, the infant for whom she had encountered so 
much danger. He acknowledged her at once 
as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest 
may be easily supposed ; the captive was set free, 
and all the happiness that love, friendship, and 
duty could confer on earth, were united.' 

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my 
daughter ; but she listened with divided attention ; 
for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she 
once had for those of another, and nothing gave 
her ease. In company she dreaded contempt ; and 
in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the 
colour of her wretchedness, when we received cer- 
tain information, that Mr. Thornhill was going to 
be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always 
suspected he had a real passion, though he took 
every opportunity before me to express his con- 
tempt both of her person and fortune. This news 
only served to increase poor Olivia's affliction; 
such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than 
her courage could support. I was resolved, how- 
ever, to get more certain information, and to de- 
feat, if possible, the completion of his designs, by 
sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot's, with instruc- 
tions to know the truth of the report, and to de- 
liver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thorn- 
hill's conduct in my family. My son went in pur- 
suance of my directions, and in three days returned, 
assuring us of the truth of the account : but that 
he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, 
which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr 
Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round 
the county. They were to be married, he said, 
in a few days, having appeared together at church 
the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, 
the bride attended by six young ladies, and he by 
as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials 
filled the whole country with rejoicing, and they 
usually rode out together in the grandest equipage 
that had bee n seen in the country for many years. 



All the friends of both families, he said, were 
there, particularly the 'squire's uncle, sir William 
Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He 
added, that nothing but mirth and feasting were 
going forward ; thai all the country praised the 
young bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine 
person, and that they were immensely fond of 
each other; concluding, that 'is could not help 
thinking Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy 
men in the world. . ; 

' Why, let him if he can,' interrupted I : 'but,, 
my son, observe this bed of straw and unshelter- 
ingroof; those mouldering walls and humid floor ; 
my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my 
children weeping round me for bread ; you have 
come home, my child, to all this ; yet here, even 
here, you see a man that would not for a thousand 
worlds exchange situations. O, my children, if 
you could but learn to commune with your own 
hearts, and know what noble company you can 
make them, you would little regard the elegance 
and splendour of the worthless. Almost all raea 
have been taught to call life a passage, and them- 
selves the travellers. The similitude still may be 
improved, when we observe that the good are joy- 
ful and serene, like travellers that are going to- 
wards home ; the wicked but by intervals happy, 
like travellers that are going into exile.' 

My compassion for my poor daughter, over- 
powered by this new disaster, interrupted what I 
had further to observe. I bade her mother sup- 
port her, and after a short time she recovered. 
She appeared from that tim.9 more calm, and I 
imagined, had gained a new degree of resolution ; 
but appearances deceived me ; for her tranquillity 
was the languor of overwrought resentment. A 
supply of provisions charitably sent us by my kind 
parishioners seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness 
among the rest of the family, nor was I dis- 
pleased at seeing them once more sprightly and at 
ease. It would have been unjust to damp their 
satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute me- 
lancholy, or to burden them with a sadness they 
did not feel. Thus, once more the tale went round, 
and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness 
condescended to hover round our little habitation. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

Fresh calamities. 
The next morning, the sun rose with peculiar 
warmth for the season ; so that we agreed to break- 
fast together on the honeysuckle bank, where, 
while we sat, my youngest daughter, at my 
request, joined her voice to the concert on the 
trees about us. It was in this place my poor 
Olivia first met her seducer, and every object 
served to recall her sadness. But that melan- 
choly which is excited by objects of pleasure, or 
inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart 
instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, upon- 
this occasion felt a pleasing distress, and wept, 
and loved her daughter as before. ' Do, my pretty 
Olivia,' cried she, ' let us have that little melan- 
choly air your papa was so fond of; your sister 
Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child : it will 
please your old father.' She complied in a man- 
ner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

"What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
"What art can wash her guilt away ? 



THE VIC Alt OF WAKEFIELD. 



167 



The only art her guilt to cover, 
To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover. 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 

As she' was concluding the last stanza, to which 
an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave 
peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr. Thorn- 
hill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but 
particularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest 
daughter, who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, 
returned to the house with her sister. In a few 
minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and 
making up to the place where I was still sitting, 
inquired after my health with his usual air of 
familiarity. ' Sir,' replied I, ' your present as- 
surance only serves to aggravate the baseness of 
your character ; and there was a time when I 
would have chastised your insolence for presuming 
thus to appear before me. But now you are safe ; 
for age has cooled my passions, and my calling 
restrains them.' 

1 1 vow, my dear sir,' returned he, ' I am amazed 
at all this ; nor can I understand what it means ! 
I hope you don't think your daughter's late excur- 
sion with me had any thing criminal in it.' 

' Go,' cried I, ' thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful 
wretch, and every way a liar, but your meanness 
secures you from my anger ! Yet, sir, I am de- 
scended from a family that would not have borne 
this ! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a mo- 
mentary passion, thou hast made one poor crea- 
ture wretched for life, and polluted a family that 
had nothing but honour for their portion.' 

1 If she or you,' returned he, ' are resolved to be 
miserable I cannot help it. But you may still 
be happy ; and whatever opinion you may have 
formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to con- 
tribute to it. We can marry her to another in a 
short time, and what is more, she may keep her 
lover besides ; for I protest I shall ever continue 
to have a true regard for her.' 

I found all my passions alarmed at this new de- 
grading proposal; for although the mind may 
often be calm under great injuries, little villany 
can at any time get within the soul and sting it 
into rage. ' Avoid my sight, thou reptile,' cried 
I, ' nor continue to insult me with thy presence. 
Were my brave son at home he would not suffer 
this ; but I am old and disabled, and every way 
undone.' 

' I find,' cried he, ' you are bent upon obliging 
me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. 
But as I have shown you what may be hoped from 
my friendship, it may not be improper to repre- 
sent what may be the consequences of my resent- 
ment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has 
been transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know 
how to prevent the course of justice, except by 
paying the money myself, which, as I have been 
at some expenses lately, previous to my intended 
marriage, is not so easy to be done. And then, 
my steward talks of driving for the rent; it is 
certain he knows his duty; for I never trouble 
myself with affairs of that nature. Yet still I 
could wish to serve you, and even to have you and 
your daughter present at my marriage, which is 
shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it ia 
even the request of my charming Arabella herself, 
whom I hope you will not refuse.' 

'Mr. Thornhill,' replied I, 'hear me once for 
all ; as to your marriage with any but my daugh- 
ter, that I will never consent to ; and though your 



friendship could raise me to a throne, or yotii re- 
sentment sink me to the grave, yet would I des- 
pise both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably 
deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine 
honour, and have found its baseness. Never 
more, therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, 
and possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, 
riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me 
to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, hum- 
bled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its 
dignity, and though thou hast my forgiveness, 
thou shalt ever have my contempt.' 

' If so,' returned he, ' depend upon it you shall 
feel the effects of this insolence, and we shall 
shortly see which is the fittest object of scorn, you 
or me.' Upon which he departed abruptly. 

My wife and son, who were present at this in- 
terview, seemed terrified with apprehension. My 
daughters, also, finding that he was gone, came 
out to be informed of the result of our conference, 
which, when known, alarmed them not less than 
the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the ut- 
most stretch of his malevolence ; he had already 
struck the blow, and now I stood prepared to re- 
pel every new effort ; like one of those instruments 
used in the art of war, which, however thrown, 
still presents a point to receive the enemy. 

We soon, however, found that he had not threat- 
ened in vain; for the very next morning his 
steward came to demand my annual rent, which, 
by the train of accidents already related, I was 
unable to pay. The consequence of my incapacity 
was his driving my cattle that evening, and their 
being appraised and sold the next day for less than 
half their value. My wife and children now, 
therefore, entreated me to comply upon any terms, 
rather than incur certain destruction. They even 
begged of me to admit his visits once more, and 
used all their little eloquence to paint the calami- 
ties I was going to endure : the terrors of a prison 
in so rigorous a season as the present, with the 
danger that threatened my health from the late 
accident that happened by the fire. But I conti- 
nued inflexible. 

4 Why, my treasures,' cried I, ' why will you 
thus attempt to persuade me to the thing that is 
not right. My duty has taught me to forgive 
him ; but my conscience will not permit me to 
approve. Would you have me applaud to the 
world what my heart must internally condemn ? 
Would you have me tamely sit down and flatter 
our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid a prison, 
continually suffer the most galling bonds of men- 
tal confinement ? No, never. If we are to be 
taken from this abode, only let us hold to the 
right, and wherever Ave are thrown we can still 
retire to a charming apartment, where we can look 
round our own hearts with intrepidity and with 
pleasure!' 

In this manner we spent that evening. Early 
the next morning, as the snow had fallen in great 
abundance in the night, my son was employed in 
clearing it away, and opening a passage before the 
door. He had not been thus engaged long, when 
he came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us, 
that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of 
justice, were making towards the house. 

Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching 
the bed where I lay, after previously informing me 
of their employment and business, made me their 
prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the 
county jail, which was eleven miles off. 



168 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



' My friends,' said I, ' this is severe weather on 
which you have come to take me to a prison ; and 
it is particularly unfortuate at this time, as one of 
my arms has lately been burned in a terrible man- 
ner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and 
I want clothes to cover me, and I am now too weak 
and old to walk far in such deep snow; but if 
it must be so — ' 

I then turned to my wife and children, and di- 
rected them to get together what few things were 
left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this 
place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and 
desired my son to assist his eldest sister, who, 
from a consciousness that she was the cause of all 
our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in 
insensibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and 
trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her 
arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading 
to look round at the strangers. In the meantime 
my youngest daughter prepared for our departure, 
and as she received several hints to use despatch, 
in about an hour we were ready to depart. 



■ 



CHAPTER XXV. 



No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort 
of comfort attending it. 1 

We set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, 
and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being 
enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for 
some days to undermine her constitution, one of 
the officers, who had a horse, kindly took her be- 
hind him; for even these men cannot entirely 
divest themselves of humanity. My son led one of 
the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other, 
while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears 
fell not for her own, but my distresses. 

We were now got from my late dwelling about 
two miles, when we saw a crowd running and 
shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of 
my poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful 
imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of 
justice, and swearing they would never see their 
minister go to jail while they had a drop of blood 
to shed in his defence, were going to use them 
with great severity. The consequence might have 
been fatal had I not immediately interposed, and 
with some difficulty rescued the officers from the 
hands of the enraged multitude. My children, 
who looked upon my delivery now as certain, 
appeared transported with joy, and were incapable 
of containing their raptures. But they were soon 
undeceived, upon hearing me address the poor 
deluded people, who came as they imagined to do 
me service. 

* What ! my friends,' cried I, ' and is this the 
way you love me ! is this the manner you obey 
the instructions I have given you from the pulpit ? 
Thus to fiy in the face of justice, and bring down 
ruin on yourselves and me ? Which is your ring- 
leader ? Show me the man that has thus seduced 
you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resent- 
ment. Alas ! my dear deluded flock, return back 
to the duty you owe to God, to your country, and 
to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you in 
greater felicity here, and contribute to make your 
lives more happy. But let it at least be my comfort 
when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one 
here shall be wanting.' 

They now seemed all repentance, and melting 



into tears came one after the other to bid me 
farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, and 
leaving them my blessing, proceeded forward 
without meeting any further interruption. Some 
hours before night we reached the town or rather 
village; for it consisted but of a few mean houses, 
having lost all its former opulence, and retaining 
no marks of its ancient superiority but the jail. 

Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we 
had such refreshments as could most readily be 
procured, and I supped with my family with my 
usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly 
accommodated for that night, I next attended the 
sheriff's officers to the prison, which had been for- 
merly built for the purposes of war, and consisted 
of one large apartment strongly grated, and paved 
with stone, common to both felons and debtors at 
certain hours in the four and twenty. Besides 
this, every prisoner had a separate cell where he 
was locked in for the night. 

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing 
but lamentations and various sounds of misery; 
but it was very different. The prisoners seemed 
all employed in one common design, that of for- 
getting thought in merriment and clamour. I 
was apprized of the usual perquisite required upon 
these occasions, and immediately complied with 
the demand, though the little money I had was 
very near being all exhausted. This was imme- 
diately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison 
soon was filled with riot, laughter, and pro- 
faneness. 

• How, cried I to myself, ' shall men so very 
wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy : I 
feel only the same confinement with them, and I 
think I have more reason to be happy.' 

With such reflections I laboured to become 
cheerful ; but cheerfulness was never yet produced 
by effort, which is itself painful. As I was sitting 
therefore in the corner of the jail in a pensive 
posture, one of my fellow prisoners came up, and 
sitting by me entered into conversation. It was 
my constant rule in life never to avoid the conver- 
sation of any man who seemed to desire it ; for if 
good, I might profit by his instruction ; if bad, he 
might be assisted by mine. I found this to be a 
knowing man of strong unlettered sense, but a 
thorough knowledge of the world, as it is called, 
or, more properly speaking, of human nature on 
the wrong side He asked me if I had taken care 
to provide myself with a bed, which was a circum- 
stance I had never once attended to. 

' That's unfortunate,' cried he, ' as you are 
allowed here nothing but straw, and your apart- 
ment is very large and cold. However, as you 
seem to be something of a gentleman, and as I 
have been one myself in my time, part of my oed- 
clothes are heartily at your service.' 

I thanked him, professing my surprise at find- 
ing such humanity in a jail in misfortunes ; add- 
ing, to let him see that I was a scholar, ' That 
the sage ancient seemed to understand the value 
of company in affliction, when he said, Ton kos- 
mon aire, ei dos ton etairon ; and, in fact,' con- 
tinued I, 'what is the world if it affords only 
solitude V 

' You talk of the world, sir,' returned my fellow 
prisoner, ' the world is in its dotage ; and yet the 
cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled 
the philosophers of every age. What a medley of 
opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
of the world. Sanchoniathon, Manetho Berosus, 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



169 



and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. 
The Isttei has these words, Anarchon ara kai 
atelutaion to pan, which implies' — ' I ask pardon, 
sir,' cried I, 'for interrupting so much learning; 
but I think I have heard all this before. Have I 
not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Wei- 
bridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jen- 
kinson V At this demand he only sighed. ' I 
suppose you must recollect/ resumed I, ' one Dr. 
Primrose, from whom you bought a horse.' 

He now at once recollected me ; for the gloomi- 
ness of the place and the approaching night had 
prevented his distinguishing my features before. 
' Yes, sir,' returned Mr. Jenkinson, ' I remember 
you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to 
pay for him. Your neighbour Flamborough is the 
only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at the next 
assizes ; for he intends to swear positively against 
me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever 
deceived you, or indeed any man ; for you see,' 
continued he, showing his shackles, 'what my 
tricks have brought me to.' 

' Well, sir,' replied I, ' your kindness in offering 
me assistance when you could expect no return, 
shall be repaid by my endeavours to soften, or total/ 
suppress Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I will 
send my son to him for that purpose the first 
opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt but he 
will comply with my request, and as to my own 
evidence, you need be under no uneasiness aboui 
that. 

' Well, sir, cried he, ' all the return I can make 
shall be yours. You shall have more than half 
my bed-clothes to-night, and I'll take care to stand 
your friend in the prison, where, I think I have 
some influence.' 

1 thanked him, and could not avoid being sur- 
prised at the present youthful change in his as- 
pect; for at the time I had seen him before, he ap- 
peared at least sixty. ' Sir,' answered he, ' you 
are little acquainted with the world ; I had at that 
time false hair, and have learnt the art of coun 
terfeiting every age from seventeen to seventy. 
A\ ) sir, had I but bestowed half the pains is. 
learning a trade, that I have in learning to be a 
scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this 
day. But, rogue as I am, still I may be your 
friend, and that, perhaps, when you least expect it. 
We were now prevented from further conversa- 
tion by the arrival of the jailor's servants, who 
came to call over the prisoners' names, and lock 
up for the night. A fellow also with a bundle of 
straw for my bed attended, who led me along a 
dark narrow passage into a room paved like the 
common prison, and in one corner of this I spread 
my bed, and the clothes given me by my fellow 
prisoner; which done, my conductor, who wa3 
civil enough, bade me a good night. After my 
usual meditations, and having praised my hea- 
venly corrector, I laid myself down, and slept 
with the utmost tranquillity tiU morning. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

A reformation in the jailAto make laws complete, they 
should reward as well as punish.l 

The next morning early I was awakemed by my 
family, whom I found in tears at my bed-side. 
The gloomy strength of every thing about us, it 
seems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked their 



sorrow, assuring them I had never slept with 
greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my 
eldest daughter, who was not among them. They 
informed me that yesterday's uneasiness and 
fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged 
proper to leave her behind. My next care wa3 
to send my son to procure a room or two to lodge 
the family in, as near the prison as conveniently 
could be found. He obeyed, but could find only 
one apartment, which was hired at a small 
expense, for his mother and sisters, the jailor, 
with humanity, consenting to let him and his 
two little brothers lie in the prison with me. A 
bed was therefore prepared for them in a corner 
of the room, which I thought answered very 
conveniently. I was willing, however, previously, 
to know whether my little children chose to lie 
in" a place which seemed to fright them upon 
entrance. 

' Well,' cried I, ' my good boys, how do you like 
your bed ? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this 
room, dark as it appears.' 

* No, papa,' says Dick, ' I am not afraid to lie 
any where where you are.' 

' And I,' says Bill, who was yet but four years 
old, ' love every place best that my papa is in.' 

After this I allotted to each of the family what 
they were to do. My daughter was particularly 
directed to watch her declining sister's health ; 
my wife was to attend me ; my little boys were to 
read to me : 'and as for you, my son,' continued 
I, ' it is by the labour of your hands we must 
all hope to be supported. Your wages, as a day 
labourer, will be fully sufficient, with proper 
frugality, to maintain us all, and comfortably too. 
Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength, 
and it was given thee, my son, for very useful 
purposes : for it must save from famine your 
helpless parents and family. Prepare, then, this 
evening to look out for work against to-morrow, 
and bring home every night what money you earn 
for our support.' 

Having thus instructed him, and settled the 
rest, I walked down to the common prison, where 
I could enjoy more air and room. But I was not 
long there, when the execrations, lewdness, and 
brutality, that invaded me on every side, drove 
me back to my apartment again. Here I sat for 
some time pondering upon the strange infatuation 
of wretches, who, finding all mankind in open 
arms against them, were labouring to make them- 
selves a future and more tremendous enemy. 

Their insensibility excited my highest compas- 
sion, and blotted my own uneasiness from mj 
mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon 
me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, there- 
fore, once more to return, and, in spite of their 
contempt, to give them my advice, and conquei 
them by perseverance. Going, therefore, among 
them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson of my de- 
sign ; at which he laughed heartily, but commurJ 
cated it to the rest. The proposal was received 
with the greatest good humour, as it promised to 
afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who 
had now no other resource for mirth, but what 
could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. 

I therefore read them a portion of the service 
with a loud and unaffected voice, and found my 
audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. 
Lewd whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, 
winking, and coughing, alternately excited laugh- 
ter. However, I continued with my natural so- 



I 170 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



lemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might 
amend some, but could itself receive no contami- 
nation from any. 

After reading, I entered upon my exhortation, 
which was rather calculated at first to amuse them 
than to reprove. I previously observed, that no 
other motive but their welfare could induce me to 
this ; that I was their fellow prisoner, and now got 
nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear 
them so very profane ; because they got nothing 
by it, but might lose a great deal : ' For, be as- 
sured, my friends,' cried I, ' (for you are my 
friends, however the world may disclaim your 
friendship,) though you swore twelve thousand 
oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in your 
purse. Then what signifies calling every moment 
upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since 
you find how scurvily he uses you. He has given 
you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of 
oaths and an empty belly ; and by the best accounts 
we have of him, he will give you nothing that's 
good hereafter. 

' If used ill in our dealings with one man, we 
naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your 
while, then, just to try how you may like the usage 
of another master, who gives you fair promises, at 
least, to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of all 
stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, 
who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers 
for protection. And yet, how are you more wise ? 
You are all seeking cpmfort from one that has 
already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious 
being than any thief-taker of them all ; for they 
only decoy and then hang you ; but he decoys and 
hangs, and what is worst of all, will not let you 
loose after the hangman has done.' 

When I had concluded, I received the compli- 
ments of my audience, some of whom came and 
shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very 
honest fellow, and that they desired my further 
acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my 
lecture next day, and actually conceived some 
hopes of making a reformation here : for it ever 
had been my opinion, that no man was past the 
hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the 
shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a 
proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, 
I went back to my apartment, where my wife pre- 
pared a frugal meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged 
leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the 
pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, of 
my conversation. He had not yet seen my family, 
for, as they came to my apartment by a door in 
the narrow passage already described, by this 
means they avoided the common prison. Jenkin- 
son, at the first interview, therefore, seemed not a 
little struck with the beauty of my youngest 
daughter, which her pensive air contributed to 
heighten, and my little ones did not pass un- 
noticed. 

' Alas, doctor,' cried he, ' these children are too 
handsome and too good for such a place as this !' 

* Why, Mr. Jenkinson,' replied I, • thank Heaven, 
my children are pretty tolerable in morals, and if 
they be good, it matters little for the rest.' 

' I fancy, sir,* returned my fellow-prisoner, ' that 
it must give you great comfort to have all this little 
family about you.' 

« A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson,* replied I, 'yes, it 
is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without 
them for all the world ; for they can make a dun- 
geon seem a palace. There is but one way in this 



life of wounding my happiness, and that is by in- 
juring them.' 

' I am afraid, then, sir,' cried he, ' that I am in 
some measure culpable ; for I think I see here,' 
looking at my son, Moses, ' one that I have in- 
jured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.' 

My son immediately recollected his voice and 
features, though he had before seen him in dis- 
guise, and taking him by the hand, with a smile, 
forgave him. ' Yet,' continued he, ' I can't help 
wondering at what you could see in my face, to 
think me a proper mark for deception.' 

' My dear sir,' returned the other, ' it was not 
your face, but your white stockings, and the black 
riband in your hair that allured me. But, no dis- 
paragement to your parts, I have deceived wiser 
men than you in my time ; and yet, with all my 
tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me 
at last.' 

' I suppose,' cried my son, ' that the narrative 
of such a life as yours must be extremely instruc- 
tive and amusing.' 

' Not much of either,' returned Mr. Jenkinson. 
1 Those relations which describe the tricks and 
vices only of mankind, by increasing our suspi- 
cion in life, retard our success. The traveller that 
distrusts every person he meets, and turns back 
upon the appearance of every man that looks like 
a robber, seldom arrives in time at his journey's 
end. 

• Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that 
the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the 
sun. 1 was thought cunning from my very child- 
hood ; when but seven years old, the ladies would 
say that I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen, I 
knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the 
ladies ; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, 
yet every one thought me so cunning, that no one 
would trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to 
turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived 
ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to 
deceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of 
detection. I used often to laugh at your honest 
simple neighbour Flamborough, and, one way or 
another, generally cheated him once a-year. Yet 
still the honest man went forward without suspi- 
cion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricky 
and cunning, and was poor, without the consola- 
tion of being honest. However,' continued he, 
' let me know your case, and what has brought 
you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to 
avoid a jail myself, I may extricate my friends.' 

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed 
him of the whole train of accidents and follies 
that had plunged me into my present troubles, 
and my utter inability to get free. 

After hearing my story and pausing some mi- 
nutes, he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit 
upon something material, and took his leave, say- 
ing he would try what could be done. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

The same subject continued. 

The next morning, I communicated to my wife 
and children the scheme 1 had planned of reform- 
ing the prisoners, which they received with uni- 
versal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility 
and impronrietv of it ; adding, that my endeavours 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



171 



would no way contribute to their amendment, 
but might probably disgrace my calling. 

' Excuse me,' returned I, ' these people, how- 
ever fallen, are still men, and that is a very good 
title to my affections. Good counsel rejected, re- 
turns to enrich the giver's bosom; and though 
the instructions I communicate may not mend 
them, yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these 
wretches, my children, were princes, there wouit 
be thousands ready to offer their ministry; but, 
in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a dun- 
geon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. 
Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them I wiii ; 
perhaps they will not all despise me. Perhaps T 
may catch up even one from the gulf, and that will 
be great gain ; for is there upon earth a gem so 
precious as the human soul V 

Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the 
common prison, where I found the prisoners very 
merry, expecting my arrival; and each prepared 
with some jail trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, 
as I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, 
as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A 
second, who stood at some distance, had a knack 
of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers 
upon my book. A third would cry amen in such 
an affected tone, as gave the rest great delight. A 
fourth had slily picked my pocket of my specta- 
cles. But there was one whose trick gave more 
universal pleasure than all the rest ; for observing 
the manner in which I had disposed my books on 
the table before me, he very dexterously displaced 
one of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his 
own in the place. However, I took no notice of 
all that this mischievous group of little beings 
could do; but went on, perfectly sensible that 
what was ridiculous in my attempt, would excite 
mirth only the first or second time, while what 
was serious would be permanent. My design suc- 
ceeded, and in less than six days some were peni- 
tent, and all attentive. 

It was now that I applauded my perseverance 
and address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches 
divested of every moral feeling, and now began to 
think of doing them temporal services also, by 
rendering their situation somewhat more comfort- 
able. Their time had hitherto been divided be- 
tween famine and excess, tumultuous riot and 
bitter repining. Their only employment was 
quarrelling among each other, playing at cribbage, 
and cutting tobacco stoppers. From this last 
mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting 
such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacco- 
nists and shoemakers, the proper wood being 
bought by a general subscription, and when ma- 
nufactured, sold by my appointment ; so that 
each earned something every day; a trifle indeed, 
but sufficient to maintain him. 

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the 
punishment of immorality, and rewards for pecu- 
liar industry. Thus in less than a fortnight I had 
formed them into something social and humane, 
and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a 
legislator, who had brought men from their na 
tive ferocity into friendship and obedience. 

And it were highly to be wished, that the legis- 
! lative power would thus direct the law rather to 
I reformation than severity. That it would seem 
I convinced, that the work of eradicating crimes is 
I not by making punishments familiar, but formi- 
dable. Then, instead of our present prisons, which 
find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches 



for the commission of one crime, and return them, 
if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of 
thousands ; we should see, as in other parts of 
Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where 
the accused might be attended by such as could 
give them repentance, if guilty, or new motives to 
virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increas- 
ing punishments, is the way to mend a state ; nor 
can I avoid even questioning the validity of that 
right which social combinations have assumed of 
capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. 
In cases of murder their right is obvious, as it is 
the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence, to 
cut off that man who has shown a disregard for 
the life of another. Against such, all nature 
arises in arms ; but it is not so against him whc 
steals my property. Natural law gives me nc 
right to take away his life, as, by that, the horse hf 
steals is as much his property as mine. If then. 
I have any right, it must be from a compact mad« 
between us, that he who deprives the other of hi? 
horse shall die. But this is a false compact ; be- 
cause no man has a right to barter his life, any 
more than to take it away, as it is not his own. 
And beside, the compact is inadequate, and would 
be set aside even in a court of modern equity, as 
there is a great penalty for a very trifling conve- 
nience, since it is far better that two men should 
live, than that one man should ride. But a com- 
pact that is false between two men, is equally so 
between a hundred, or a hundred thousand, for 
as ten millions of circles can never make a square, 
so the united voice of myriads cannot lend the 
smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus that 
reason speaks, and untutored nature says the 
same thing. Savages thafare directed by natural 
law alone are very tender of the lives of each 
other; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate 
former cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, 
had but few executions in times of peace ; and in 
all commencing governments that have the print 
of nature still strong upon them, scarcely any 
crime is held capital. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community 
that penal laws, which are in the hands of the 
rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while 
it grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of 
age ; and as if our property were become dearer 
in proportion as it increased, as if the more enor- 
mous our wealth, the more extensive our fears, 
all our possessions are paled up with new edicts 
every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare 
every invader. 

I cannot tell whether it is from the number of 
our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, 
that this country should show more convicts in a 
year than half the dominions of Europe united. 
Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually 
produce each other. When by indiscriminate pe- 
nal laws a nation beholds the same punishment 
affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from per- 
ceiving no distinction in the penalty, the people 
are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, 
and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality ; 
thus the multitude of laws produce new vices, 
and new vices call for fresh restraints. 

It were to be wished, then, that power, instead 
of contriving new laws to punish vice, instead of 
drawing hard the cords of society till a convulsion 
come to burst them, instead of cutting away 
wretches as useless, before we have tried their 



172 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



utility, instead of converting correction into ven- 
geance, it were to be wished that we tried the re- 
strictive arts of government, and made law the 
protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We 
should then find that creatures, whose souls are 
held as dross, only wanted the hand of 3 refiner ; 
we should then find that wretches, now stuck up 
for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a momen- 
tary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to 
sinew the state in times of danger : that, as their 
faces are like ours, their hearts are so too ; that 
few minds are so base as that perseverance cannot 
amend ; that a man may see his last crime without 
dying for it ; and that very little blood will serve 
to cement our security. 




•'..,. I locker) with cntnpairinti on the vvn 
proached me, but with horror, when I found it was i 



' 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 



H.ippiness and misery rather the result of prudence than I 
of virtue in this life. Temporal evils or felicities being I 
regarded by Heaven as things merely in themselves' 
trifling, and unworthy its care in the distribution. 

I had now been confined more than a fortnight, 
but bad not since my arrival been visited by my 
dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. 
Having communicated my wishes to my wife, the 
next morning my poor girl entered my apartment, 
leaning on her sister's arm. The change which I 
saw in her countenance struck me. The number- 
less graces that once resided there were now fled, 
and the hand of death seemed to have moulded 
every feature to alarm me. Her temples were 
sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness 
sat upon her cheek. 



' I am glad to see thee, my dear,' cried I, 'but 
why this dejection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you 
have too great a regard for me, to permit disap- 
pointment thus to undermine a life which I prize 
as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet 
see happier days.' 

1 You have ever, sir,' replied she, ' been kind to 
me, and it adds to my pain, that I shall never 
have an opportunity of sharing that happiness you 
promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved 
for me here ; and I long to be rid of a place where 
I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish 
you would make a proper submission to Mr. 
Thornhill ; it may, in some measure, induce him 
to pity you ; and it will give me relief in dying.' 

' Never, child,' replied I, ' never will I be 
brought to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute ; 
for though the world may look upon your offence 
with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark 
of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no ways 
miserable in this place, however dismal it may 
seem ; and be assured, that while you continue to 
bless me by living, he shall never have my consent 
to make you more wretched by marrying another.' 

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow- 
prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly 
enough expostulated on my obstinacy, in refusing 
a submission which promised to give me freedom. 
He observed, that the rest of my family were not 
to be sacrified to the peace of one child alone, and 
she the only one who had offended me. • Besides,' 
added he, ' I don't know if it be just thus to ob- 
struct the union of man and wife, which you do 
at present, by refusing to consent to a match 
which you cannot hinder, but may render un- 
happy.' 

' Sir,' replied I, you are unacquainted with the 
man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that 
no submission I can make could procure me 
liberty even for an hour. I am told, that even in 
this very room, a debtor of his, no later than last 
year, died for want. But though my submission 
and approbation could transfer me from hence to 
the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, 
yet I would grant neither, as something whispers 
me, that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. 
While my daughter lives, no other marriage of 
his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she re- 
moved, indeed, I should be the basest c f men, 
from any resentment of my own, to attempt put- 
ting asunder those who wish for an union. No, 
villian as he is, I should then wish him married, 
to prevent the consequences of his future debauch- 
eries. But now, should I not be the most cruel of 
all fathers, to sign an instrument which must send 
my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison 
myself; and thus, to escape one pang, break my 
child's heart with a thousand V 

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but 
could not avoid observing, that he feared my 
daughter's life was already too much wasted to 
keep me long a prisoner. ' However,' continued 
he, 'though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I 
hope you have no objections to laying your case 
before the uncle, who has the first character in 
the kingdom for every thing that is just and good. 
I would advise you to send him a letter by the 
post, intimating all his nephew's ill usage, and my 
life for it, that in three days you shall have an 
answer.' I thanked him for the hint, and instantly 
set about complying; but I wanted paper, and 
unluckily all our money had been laid out that 



THE VICAR. OP WAKEFIELD. 



173 



morning in provisions ; however, he supplied 
me. 

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of 
anxiety, to know what reception my letter might 
meet with ; but, in the mean time, was frequently 
solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions 
rather than remain here, and every hour received 
repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter's 
health. The third day, and the fourth arrived, 
but I received no answer to my letter ; the com- 
plaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew 
were no way likely to succeed ; so that these hopes 
soon vanished, like all my former. My mind, 
however, still supported itself, though confinement 
•and bad air began to make a visible alteration in 
jiy health, and my arm, that had suffered in the 
ire, grew worse. My children, however, sat by 
me, and while I was stretched on my straw, read 
to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instruc- 
tions. But my daughter's health declining faster 
than mine, every message from her contributed to 
increase my apprehensions and pain. The fifth 
morning after I had written the letter, Avhich was 
sent to sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with 
an account that she was speechless. Now it was 
chat confinement was truly painful to me ; my soul 
was bursting from its prison to be near the pillow 
of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to re- 
ceive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way 
to heaven ! Another account came ; she was ex- 
piring, and yet I was debarred the small comfort 
of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner some time 
after came with the ast account. He bade me be 
patient ; she was dead ! The next morning he re- 
turned, and found me with my two little ones, who 
were using all their innocent efforts to comfort me 
They entreated to read to me, and bade me not 
cry, for I was now too old to weep. ' And is not 
my sister an angel now, papa,' cried the eldest, 
' and why, then, are you sorry for her ? I wish I 
were an angel out of this frightful place, if my 
papa were with me.' — ' Yes,' added my youngest 
darling, ' heaven, where my sister is, is a finer 
place than this, and there are none but good people 
there, and the people here are very bad.' 

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle, 
by observing, that now my daughter was no more, 
I should seriously think of the rest of my family, 
and attempt to save my own life, which was every 
day declining for want of necessaries and whole- 
some air. He added, that it was now incumbent 
on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my 
own to the welfare of those who depended on me 
for support ; and that I was now, both by reason 
and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my land- 
lord. 

' Heaven be praised,' replied I, 'there is no 
pride left me now. I should detest my own heart, 
if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there. 
On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once 
my parishioner, I hope one day to present him up 
an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, 
sir, I have no resentment now, and though he has 
taken from me what I held dearer than all his 
treasures, though he has wrung my heart, for I 
am sick a\most to fainting, very sick, my fellow- 
prisoner, yet that shall never inspire me with 
vengeance. I am now willing to approve his 
marriage, and if this submission can do him any 
pleasure, let him know, that if I have done him 
any injury I am sorry for it.' Mr. Jenkinson took 
pen and ink, and wrote down my submission 



neany as I have expressed it, to which I signed 
my name. My son was employed to carry the 
letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat 
in the country. He went, and in about six hours 
returned with a verbal answer. He had some 
difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as 
the servants were insolent and suspicious ; but he 
accidentally saw him as he was going out upon 
business, preparing for his marriage, which was 
to be in three days. He continued to inform us, 
that he stept up in the humblest manner, and de- 
livered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill had 
read, he said that all submission was now too late 
and unnecessary; that he had heard of our appli- 
cation to his uncle, which met with the contempt 
it deserved ; and as for the rest, that all future 
applications should be directed to his attorney 
not to him. He observed, however, that as he 
had a very good opinion of the discretion of the 
two young ladies, they might have been the mos*, 
agreeable intercessors. 

' Well, sir,' said I to my fellow -prisoner, ' you 
now discover the temper of the man who oppresses 
me. He can at once be facetious and cruel ; but 
let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in 
spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now 
drawing towards an abode that looks brighter aa 
I approach it : this expectation cheers my afflic- 
tions, and though I leave a helpless family of 
orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly 
forsaken ; some friend, perhaps, will be found to 
assist them for the sake of their poor father, and 
some may charitably relieve them for the sake of 
their heavenly father.' 

Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen 
that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and 
making efforts, but unable, to speak. ' Why, my 
love,' cried I, ' why will you thus increase my 
afflictions by your own ? What though no sub- 
mission can turn our severe master, though he has 
doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, 
and though we have lost a darling child, yet still 
you will find comfort in your other children when 
I shall be no more.' — ' We have indeed lost,' re 
turned she, ' a darling child. My Sophia, my 
dearest is gone : snatched from us, carried off by 
ruffians !' 

' How madam,' cried my fellow-prisoner, ' Miss 
Sophia carried off by villains! Sure it cannot 
be!' 

She could only answer with a fixed look, and a 
flood of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives, 
who was present, and came in with her, gave us 
a more distinct account; she informed us, that 
as my wife, my daughter, and herself, were taking 
a walk together on the great road, a little way 
out of the village, a post chaise and pair drove up 
to them, and instantly stopped. Upon w r hich a 
well dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping 
out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and 
forcing her in, bid the postillion drive on, so that 
they were out of sight in a moment. 

' Now,' cried I, ' the sum of my miseries is made 
ap, nor is it in the power of any thing on earth to 
give me another pang. What ! not one left ! not 
leave me one ! the monster ! the cnild that was 
next my heart ! she had the beauty of an angel, 
and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support 
that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me 
one!' — 'Alas, my husband,' said my wife, 'yoc 
seem to want comfort even more than I. Our 
distresses are great ; but I could bear this and 



174 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



more, if 1 saw you but easy. They may take away 
my children, and all the world, if they leave me 
but you.' 

My son, who was present, endeavoured to 
moderate our grief ; he bade us take comfort, for 
he hoped that we might still have reason to be 
thankful. — 'My child,' cr M I, 'look round the 
world, and see if there 3d any happiness left me 
now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out ; while 
all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave ?' 
— ' My dear father,' returned he, ' I hope there is 
still something that will give you an interval of 
satisfaction ; for I have a letter from my brother 
George.' — ' What of him, my child ?' interrupted I, 
' does he know our misery ? I hope my boy is 
exempt from any part of what his wretched 
family suffers V ' Yes, sir,' returned he, ' he is 
perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter 
brings nothing but good news ; he is the favourite 
of his colonel, who promises to procure him the 
very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant.' 

1 And are you sure of all this,' cried my wife, 
' are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my 
boy?' — 'Nothing, indeed, madam,' returned my 
son, ' you shall see the letter, which will give you 
the highest pleasure ; and if any thing can procure 
you comfort, I am sure that will.' — ' But are you 
sure,' still repeated she, ' that the letter is from 
himself, and that he is really so happy?' — ' Yes, 
madam,' replied he, ' it is certainly his, and he 
will one day be the credit and the support of our 
family !' — ' Then, I thank Providence,' cried she, 
' that my last letter to him has miscarried. — Yes, 
my dear,' continued she, turning to me, ' I will 
now confess, that though the hand of heaven is 
sore upon us in other instances, it has been fa- 
vourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, 
which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired 
him, upon his mother's blessing, and if he had the 
heart of a man, to see justice done to his father 
and sister, and avenge our cause. But thanks 
be to Him that directs all things, it has miscarried, 
and I am at rest.' — • Woman,' cried I, ' thou hast 
done very ill, and at another time my reproaches 
might have been more severe. Oh ! what a tre- 
mendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have 
buried both thee and him in endles ruin. Provi- 
dence, indeed, has here been kinder to us than we 
to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the 
father and protector of my children when I shall 
be away. How unjustly did I complain of being 
stripped of every comfort, when still I hear that 
he is happy and insensible of our afflictions ; still 
kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, 
and to protect his brothers and sisters. But what 
sisters has he left ? he has no sisters now, they 
are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone. 
— ' Father,' interrupted my son, ' I beg j'ou will 
give me leave to read his letter, I know it will 
please you.' Upon which, with my permission, 
he read as follows : — 

' HONOURED SIR, 

' I have called off my imagination a few mo* 
ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix 
it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the 
dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that 
harmless group as listening to every line of this 
with great composure. I view those faces with 
delight which never felt the deforming hand of 
ambition or distress? But, whatever your hap- 
piness may be at home, I am sure it will be some 



addition to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased 
with my situation, and every way happy here. 

' Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to 
leave^the kingdom; the colonel, wno professes 
himself my friend, takes me with him to all com- 
panies where he is acquainted, and after my first 
visit I generally find myself received with in- 
creased respect upon repeating it. I danced last 

night with lady G , and could I forget you 

know whom, I might be perhaps successful. But 
it is my fate still to remember others while I am 
myself forgotten by most of my absent friends, and 
in this number, I fear, sir, that I must consider 
you; fori have long expected the pleasure of a 
letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and 
Sophia too promised to write, but seem to have for- 
gotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little 
baggages, and that I am this moment in a most 
violent passion with them ; yet still I know not 
how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart 
is respondent only to softer emotions. Then, tell 
them, sir, that after all, I love them affectionately, 
and be assured of my ever remaining 

' Your dutiful son.* 
' In all our miseries,' cried I, ' what thanks have 
we not to return, that one at least of our family is 
exempted from what we suffer ? Heaven be his 
guard, and keep my boy thus happy to be the sup- 
porter of his widowed mother, and the father of 
these two babes, which is all the patrimony I can 
now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence 
from the temptations of want, and be their con- 
ductor in the paths of honour !' I had scarcely 
said these words, when a noise like that of a 
tumult seemed to proceed from the prison below ; 
it died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters 
was heard along the passage that led to my apart- 
ment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding 
a man all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the 
heaviest irons. I looked with compassion on the 
wretch as he approached me, but with horror, 
when I found it was my own son. ' My George ! 
my George ! and do I behold thee thus ? Wounded ' 
fettered ! Is this thy happiness ? Is this the man 
ner you return tome? Oh that this sight could 
break my heart at once, and let me die !' 

« Where, sir, is your fortitude ?' returned my 
son, with an intrepid voice. ' I must suffer, my 
life is forfeited, and let them take it.' 

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes 
in silence, but I thought 1 should have died with 
the effort. ' Oh, my boy, my heart weeps to behold 
thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the 
moment that I thought thee blessed, and prayed 
for thy safety, to behold thee thus again !— chained, 
wounded. And yet the death of the youthful is 
happy. But I am old, a very old man, and have 
lived to see this day. To see my children all un- 
timely falling about me, while I continue a 
wretched survivor in the midst of ruin. May all 
the curses that ever sank a soul fall heavy upon 
the murderer of my children ! May he live, like 
me, to see — ' 

• Hold, sir,' replied my son, ' or I shall blush for 
thee. How, sir, forgetful of your age, your holy 
calling, thus to arrogate the justice of heaven, and 
fling those curses upward that must soon descend 
to crush thy own gray head with destruction ! No, 
sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile 
death I must shortly suffer, to arm me with hope 
and resolution, to give me courage to drink of that 
bitterness which must shortly be my portion. 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



175 



' My "child, you must not die : I am sure no 
offence of thine can deserve so foul a punishment. 
My George could never be guilty of a crime to make 
his ancestors ashamed of him.* 

* Mine, sir,' returned my son, ' is, I fear, an 
unpardonable one. When I received my mother's 
letter from home, I immediately came down, deter- 
mined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and 
Bent him an order to meet me, which he answered, 
not in person, but by despatching four of his do- 
mestics to seize me. I wounded one, who first 
assaulted me, and I fear desperately ; but the rest 
made me their prisoner. The coward is deter- 
mined to put the law in execution against me; 
the proofs are undeniable ; I have sent a challenge, 
and as I am the first transgressor upon the statute, 
I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often 
charmed me with your lessons of fortitude, let 
me now, sir, find them in your example.' 

' And, my son, you shall find them. I am now 
raised above this world, and all the pleasures it 
can produce . From this moment I break from 
my heart all the ties that held it down to earth, 
and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, 
my son, I will point out the way, and my soul 
shall guide yours in the ascent, for we will take 
our flight together. I now see and am convinced 
you can expect no pardon here, and I can only ex- 
hort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where 
we both shall shortly answer. But let us not be 
niggardly in our exhortation, but let all our fellow- 
prisoners have a share : good jailor, let them be 
permitted to stand here while I attempt to improve 
them.' Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from 
my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only 
to recline against the wall. The prisoners assem- 
bled themselves according to my directions, for they 
loved to hear my counsel ; my son and his mother 
supported me on either side ; I looked and saw that 
none were wanting, and then addressed them with 
the following exhortation. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with re- 
gard to the Lappy and the miserable here below. That 
from the nature of pleasure and pain, the wretched 
must be repaid the balance of their sufferings in the 
life hereafter. 



,■: 



1 My friends, my children, my fellow-sufferers, 
when I reflect on the distribution of good and 
evil here below, I find that much has been given 
man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though 
we should examine the whole world, we shall not 
find one man so happy as to have nothing left to 
wish for ; but we daily see thousands who by sui- 
cide show us that they have nothing left to hope- 
In this life then it appears that we cannot be en- 
tirely blessed, but we yet may be completely mi- 
serable. / 

'Why 'man should thus feel pain, why our 
wretchedness should be requisite in the formation 
of universal felicity, why, when all other systems 
are made perfect by the perfection of their subor- 
dinate parts, the great system should require for 
its perfection parts that are not only subordinate 
to others, but imperfect in themselves ; these are 
questions that never can be explained, and might 
be useless if known. On this subject providence 
has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied 
with granting us motives to consolation. 



' In this situation man has called in the friendly 
assistance of philosophy ; and heaven, seeing the 
incapacity of that to console him, has given him 
the aid of religion. The consolations of philoso- 
phy are very amusing, but often fallacious. It 
tells us that life is filled with comforts, if we will 
but enjoy them ; and, on the other hand, that 
though we unavoidably have miseries here, life is 
short, and they will soon be over. Thus do these 
consolations destroy each other ; for, if life is a 
place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, 
and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus 
philosophy is weak ; but religion comforts in a 
higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up 
his mind, and preparing it for another abode. 
When the good man leaves the body, and is all a 
glorious mind, he will find he has been making 
himself a heaven of happiness here, while the 
WTetch that has been maimed and contaminated 
by his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, 
and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of 
heaven. To religion then we must hold, in every 
circumstance of life, for our truest comfort ; for if 
already we are happy, it is a pleasure to think we 
can make that happiness unending; and if we 
are miserable, it is very consoling to think that 
there is a place of rest. Thus, to the fortunate, 
religion holds out a continuance of bliss, to the 
wretched a change from pain. 

' But though religion is very kind to all men, it 
has promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy ; 
the sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy- 
laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent 
promises in our sacred law. The Author of our 
religion everywhere professes himself the wretch's 
friend, and, unlike the false ones of this world, 
bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. The 
unthinking have censured this as partiality, as a 
preference without merit to deserve it. But they 
never reflect, that it is not in the power even of 
heaven itself to make the offer of unceasing feli- 
city as great a gift to the happy as to the misera- 
ble. To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, 
since at most it but increases what they already 
possess. To the latter, it is a double advantage ; 
for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards 
them with heavenly bliss hereafter. 

' But providence is in another respect kinder to 
the poor than the rich, for as it thus makes the 
life after death more desirable, so it smooths the 
passage there. The wretched have had a long 
familiarity with every face of terror. The man of 
sorrows lays himself quietly down, without pos- 
sessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his de- 
parture; he feels only nature's pang in the final sepa- 
ration, and this is no way greater than he has often 
fainted under before ; for after a certain degree of 
pain, every new breach that death opens in the con- 
stitution, nature kindly covers with insensibility. 

* Thus providence has given the wretched two 
advantages over the happy in this life, greater 
felicity in dying, and in heaven all that superiority 
of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoy- 
ment. And this superiority, my friends, is no 
small advantage, and seems to be one of the plea-, 
sures of the poor man in the parable ; for though 
he was already in heaven, and felt all the rap 
tures it could give, yet it was mentioned as an 
addition to his happiness, that he once had been 
wretched, and now was comforted ; that he had 
known what it was to be miserable, and now felt 
what it was to be happy. 



176 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



* Thus, my friends, you see religion does what 
philosophy could never do : it shows the equal 
dealings of heaven to the happy and the unhappy, 
and levels all human enjoyments to nearly the 
same standard. It gives to both rich and poor the 
same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to as- 
pire after it ; but if the rich have the advantage 
of enjoying pleasure here, the poor have the end- 
less satisfaction of knowing what it was once to be 
miserable, when crowned with endless felicity 
hereafter ; and even though this should be called 
a small advantage, yet being an eternal one, it 
must make up by duration what the temporal hap- 
piness of the great may have exceeded by intense- 
ness. 

'These are, therefore, the consolations which 
the wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in 
which they are above the rest of mankind ; in 
other respects they are below them. They who 
would know the miseries of the poor, must see 
life and endure it. To declaim on the temporal 
advantages they enjoy, is only repeating what 
none other either believe or practice. The men 
who have the necessaries of living are not poor, 
and they who want them must be miserable, 
ifes, my friends, we must be miserable. No vain 
efforts of a refined imagination can soothe the 
wants of nature, can give elastic sweetness to the 
dank vapour of a dungeon, or ease to the throb- 
bings of a broken heart. Let the philosopher from 
his couch of softness tell us that Ave can resist all 
these. Alas! the effort by which we resist them 
is still the greatest pain. Death is slight, and 
any man may sustain it ; but torments are dread- 
ful, and these no man can endure. 

• To us then, my friends, the prontses of nap- 
piness in heaven should be peculiarly dear; for if 
our reward be in this life alone, we are then, indeed, 
of all men the most miserable. When I look round 
these gloomy walls, made to terrify as well as con- 
fine us ; this light that only serves to show the 
horrors of the place, those shackles that tyranny 
has imposed, or crime made necessary ; when 1 
survey these emaciated looks, and hear those 
groans, O ! my friends, what a glorious exchange 
would heaven be for these ! To fly through regions 
unconfined as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal 
bliss, to carol over endless hymns of praise, to 
have no master to threaten or insult us, but the 
form of Goodness himself for ever in our eyes : 
when I think of these things, death becomes the 
messenger of very glad tidings ; when I think of 
these things, his sharpest arrow becomes the 
staff of my support ; when I think of these things, 
what is there in life worth having? when I think 
of these things, what is there that should not be 
spurned away 1 kings in their palaces should 
groan for such advantages ; but we, humbled as 
we are, should yearn for them. 

'And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will 
certainly be if we but try for them; and, what is a 
comfort, we are shut out from many temptations 
that would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for 
them and they will certainly be ours ; and what is 
still a comfort, shortly too ; for if we look back on 
a past life it appears but a very short span, and 
whatever we may think of the rest of life, it will 
yet be found of less duration ; as we grow older 
the days seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy 
with time ever lessens the perception of his stay. 
Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon 
be at our journey's end ; we shall soon lay down 



the heavy burden laid by heaven upon us ; and 
though death, the only friend of the wretched, for 
a little while mocks the weary traveller with the 
view, and, like his horizon, still flies before him ; 
yet the time will certainly and shortly come when 
we shall cease from our toil ; when the luxuriant 
great ones of the world shall no more tread us to 
the earth; when we shall think with pleasure 
of our sufferings below ; when we shall be sur- 
rounded with all our friends, or such as deserved 
our friendship ; when our bliss shall be unuttera- 
ble, and still, to crown all, unending.' 



CHAPTER XXX. 

Happier prospects begin to appear.^ Let us be inflexible, 
and fortune will at last changeTfi our favour. [ 

When I had thus finished, and my audience was 
retired, the jailor, who was one of the most hu- 
mane of his profession, hoped I would not be dis- 
pleased as what he did was but his duty, observing 
that he must be obliged to remove my son into 
a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to 
revisit me every morning. I thanked him for his 
clemency, and grasping my boy's hand bade him 
farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that 
was before him. 

I again, therefore, laid me down, and one of 
my little ones sat by my bed-side reading, when 
Mr. Jenkinson entering informed me that there 
was news of my daughter ; for that she was seen 
by a person about two hours before in a strange 
gentleman's company, and that they had stopped 
at a neighbouring village for refreshment, and 
seemed as if returning to town. He had scarcely 
delivered this news when the jailor came, with 
looks of haste and pleasure, to inform me that my 
daughter was found. Moses came running in a 
moment after, crying that his sister Sophy was 
below, and coming up with our old friend Mr. 
Burchell. 

Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl 
entered, and, with looks almost wild with pleasure, 
ran to kiss me in a transport of affection. Her mo- 
ther's tears and silence also showed her pleasure. 
' Here, papa,' cried the charming girl, 'here is tne 
brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this 
gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted for my hap- 
piness and safety — ' A kiss from Mr. Burchell, 
whose pleasure seemed even greater than her's, 
jiterrupted what she was going to add. 

'Ah, Mr. Burchell,' cried I, 'this is but a 
wretched habitation you now find us in ; and we 
are now very different from what you last saw us. 
You were ever our friend ; we have long disco- 
vered our errors with regard to you, and repented 
of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then 
received at my hands, I am almost ashamed to 
behold your face ; yet I hope you'll forgive me, as 
I was deceived by a base, ungenerous wretch, who, 
under the mask of friendship, has undon i me.' 

'It is impossible,' replied Mr. BurcheL, ' that I 
should forgive you as you never deserved my re- 
sentment ; I partly saw your delusion then, and 
as it was out of my power to restrain, I could only 
pity it.' 

' It was ever my conjecture,' cried I, ' that your 
mind was noble ; but now I find it so. But tell 
me, my dear child, how hast thou been relieved, 
or who the ruffians were who carried thee away V 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



177 



'Indeed, sir, replied she, 'as to the villain who 
carried me off I am yet ignorant. For as my 
mamma and I were walking- out, he came behind 
us, and almost before I could call for help forced 
me into the post-chaise and in an instant the 
horses drove away. I met several on the road 
to whom I cried out for assistance ; but they dis- 
regarded my entreaties. In the mean time, the 
ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from 
crying out : he flattered and threatened by turns, 
and swore that if I continued but silent he in- 
tended no harm. In the mean time, I had broken 
the canvass that he had drawn up, and whom 
should I perceive at some distance but your old 
friend Mr. Burchell, walking along with his usual 
swiftness, with the great stick for which we used 
so much to ridicule him. As soon as we came 
within hearing I called out to him by name, and 
entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations 
several times, upon which, with a very loud voice, 
he bid the postillion stop : but the boy took no 
notice, but drove on with still greater speed. I 
now thought he could nevgr overtake us, when, 
in less than a minute, I saw Mr. Burchell come 
running up by the side of the horses, and with one 
blow knock the postillion to the ground. The 
horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of them- 
selves, and the ruffian stepping out with oaths 
and menaces drew his sword, and ordered him at 
his peril to retire ; but Mr. Burchell, running up, 
shivered his sword to pieces, and then pursued 
him for near a quarter of a mile ; but he made his 
'escape. I was at this time come out myself, will- 
ing to assist my deliverer; but he soon returned 
to me in triumph. The postilion, who was reco- 
vered, was going to make his escape too ; but Mr. 
Burchell ordered him at his peril to mount agaic 
and drive back to town. Finding it impossible 
to resist, he reluctantly complied, though the 
wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to 
be dangerous. He continued to complain of the 
pain as we drove along, so that he at last excited 
Mr. Burchell's compassion, who, at my request, 
exchanged him for another at an inn where we 
called on our return.' 

' Welcome, then,' cried I, ' my child, and thou, 
her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes. 
Though our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts 
are ready to receive you. And now, Mr. Bur- 
chell, as you have delivered my girl, if you think 
her a recompense she is yours ; if you can stoop to 
an alliance with a family so poor as mine, take 
her, obtain her consent, as I know you have her 
heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, 
sir, that I give you no small treasure; she has 
been celebrated for beauty it is true, but that is 
not my meaning, I give you up a treasure in her 
mind.' 

' But I suppose, sir,' cried Mr. Burchell, ' that 
you are apprized of my circumstances, and of my 
incapacity to support her as she deserves V 

' If your present objection,' replied I, ' be meant 
as an evasion of my offer, I desist ; but I know no 
man so worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I 
could give her thousands, and thousands sought 
her from me, yet my honest, brave Burchell should 
be my dearest choice.' 

To all this his sijence alone seemed to give a 
mortifying refusal, and without the least reply 
to my offer, he demanded if we could not be fur- 
nished with refreshments from the next inn ; to 
■which being answered in the affirmative, he or- 



dered them to send in the best dinner that could 
be provided upon such short notice. He bespoke 
also a dozen of the best wine ; and some cordials 
for me. Adding with a smile, that he would 
stretch a little for once, and though in a prison,, 
asserted he was never better disposed to be merry. 
The waiter soon made his appearance with pre- 
parations for dinner, a table was- lent us by the 
bailor, who seemed remarkably assiduous, the wine 
was disposed in order, and two very well-dressed 
dishes were brought in. 

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor bro- 
ther's melancholy situation, and we all seemed 
unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the rela- 
tion. But it was in vain that I attempted to appear 
cheerful, the circumstances of my unfortunate 
son broke through all efforts to dissemble ; so that 
I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by rela- 
ting his misfortunes, and wishing that he might 
be permitted to share with us in this little inter- 
val of satisfaction. After my guests were recovered 
from the consternation my account had produced, 
I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-pri- 
soner, might be admitted, and the jailor granted 
my request with an air of unusual submission. 
The clanking of my son's irons was no sooner 
heard along the passage, than his sister ran impa- 
tiently to meet him ; while Mr. Burchell, in the 
mean time, asked me if my son's name were 
George ; to which replying in the affirmative, he 
still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered 
the room, I could perceive he regarded Mr. Bur- 
chell with a look of astonishment and reverence. 
' Come on,' cried I, ' my son, though we are fallen 
very low, yet providence has been pleased to gran 
•ome small relaxation from pain. Thy sister 
is restored to us, and there is her deliverer; to 
that brave man it is that I am indebted for yet 
having a daughter; give him, my boy, the hand 
of friendship, he deserves our warmest gratitude. 

My son seemed all this while regardless of what 
I said, and still continued fixed at respectful dis- 
tance. 'My dear brother,' cried his sister, 'why 
don't you thank my good deliverer? the brave 
should ever love each other.' 

He still continued his silence and astonishment, 
till our guest at last perceived himself to be 
known, and assuming all his native dignity, de- 
sired my son to come forward. Never before had 
I seen any thing so truly majestic as the air he 
assumed upon this occasion. The greatest object 
in the universe, says a certain philosopher, is a 
good man struggling with adversity; yet there 
is still a greater, which is the good man that 
comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my 
son for some time with a superior air, ' I again 
find,' said he, ' unthinking boy, that the same 
crime — ' But here he was interrupted by one of 
the jailor's servants, who came to inform us that 
a person of distinction, who had driven into town 
with a chariot and several attendants, sent his 
respects to the gentleman that was with us, and 
begged to know when he should think proper to 
be waited upon. ' Bid the fellow wait,' cried our 
guest, ' till I shall have leisure to receive him ;' 
and then, turning to my son, ' I again find, sir,' 
proceeded he, ' that you are guilty of the same 
offence for which you once had my reproof, and 
for which the law is now preparing its justest pu- 
nishments. You imagine, perhaps, that a con- 
tempt for your own life, gives you a right to take 
that of another ; but where, sir, is the difference 



178 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



between a duellist who hazards a life of no value, 
and the murderer who acts with greater security? 
Is it any dimunition of the gamester's fraud when 
he alleges that he has staked a counter V 

'Alas, sir,' cried I, ' whoever you are, pity the 
poor misguided creature ; for what he has done 
was in obedience to a deluded mother, who in the 
bitterness of her resentment required him upon 
her blessing to avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is 
the letter which will serve to convince you of her 
imprudence and diminish his guilt.' 

He took the letter, and hastily read it over. 
' This,' says he, ' though not a perfect excuse, is 
such a palliation of his fault, as induces me to 
forgive him. And now, sir,' continued he, kindly 
taking my son by the hand, ' I see you are sur- 
prised at finding me here ; but I have often visited 
prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am 
now come to see justice done a worthy man, for 
whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have 
long been a disguised spectator of thy father's 
benevolence. I have at his little dwelling enjoyed ' 
respect uncontaminated by flattery, and have re- 
ceived that happiness that courts could not give, 
from the amusing simplicity round his fire-side. 
My nephew has been apprised of my intentions 
of coming here, and I find he is arrived; it 
would be wronging him and you to condemn 
him without examination; if there be injury, 
there shall be redress ; and this I may say, with- 
out boasting, that none have ever taxed the in- 
justice of sir William Thornhill.' 

We now found the personage whom we had so 
long entertained as a harmless, amusing compa- 
nion, was no other than the celebrated sir Wil- 
aara Thornhill, to whose virtues and singulari- 
ties scarcely any were strangers. The poor Mr. 
Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune and 
great interest, to whom senates listened with ap- 
plause, and whom party heard with conviction ; 
who was the friend of his country, but loyal to 
his king. My poor wife, recollecting her former 
familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehension ; 
out Sophia, who a few moments before thoughi 
him her own, now perceiving the immense dis- 
tance to which he was removed by fortune, was 
unable to conceal her tears. 

1 Ah, sir,' cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, 
•how is it possible that I can ever have your for 
giveness ; the slights you received from me the 
last time I had the honour of seeing you at oui 
house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw 
out, these jokes, sir, I fear can never be forgiven.' 

' My dear good lady,' returned he, with a smile, 
'if you had your joke, I had my answer; I'll 
leave it to all the company if mine were not as 
good as yours. To say the truth, I know no body 
whom I am disposed to be angry with at present 
but the fellow who so frighted my little girl here. 
I had not even time to examine the rascal's per- 
son so as to describe him in an advertisement. 
Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you 
should know him again ?' 

' Indeed, sir,' replied she, 'I can't be positive; 
yet now I recollect he had a large mark over one 
of his eye-brows.' — ' I ask pardon, madam,' inter- 
rupted Jenkinson, who was by, ' but be so good as 
to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair?' 
— ' Yes, I think so,' cried Sophia.—' And did your 
honour,' continued he, turning to sir William, 
« observe the length of his legs?'—' I can't be sure 
of their length,' cried the baronet,' but I am con- 



vinced of their swiftness ; for he out-ran me, which 
is what I thought few men in the kingdom could 
have done.' — 'Please your honour,' cried Jen- 
kinson, ' I know the man ; it is certainly the same, 
the best runner in England ; he has beaten Pin- 
wire of Newcastle; Timothy Baxter is his name, 
I know him perfectly, and the very place of his 
retreat this moment. If your honour will bid Mr. 
Jailor let two of his men go with me, I'll engage 
to produce him to you in an hour at farthest. 
Upon this the jailor was called, who instantly ap- 
pearing, sir William demanded if he knew him. 
' Yes, please your honour,' replied the jailor, 'I 
know sir William Thornhill well, and every body 
that knows any thing of him, will desire to know 
more of him.' — ' Well then,' said the baronet, ' my 
request is, that you will permit this man and two 
of your servants to go upon a message by my au- 
thority, and as I am in the commission of the peace, 
I undertake to secure you.' — 'Your promise is 
sufficient,' replied the other, ' and you may at a 
minute's warning send them over England when- 
ever your honour things fit.' 

In pursuance of the" jailor's compliance, Jenkin- 
son was despatched in search of Timothy Baxter, 
while we were amused with the assiduity of our 
youngest boy Bill, who had just come in and 
climbed up to sir William's neck in order to kiss him. 
His mother was immediately going to chastise 
his familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her ; 
and taking the child, all ragged as lit was, upon 
his knee, ' What Bill, you chubby rogue, oried he, 
• do you remember your old friend Burc hell ? and 
Dick too, my honest veteran, are you here, you 
shall find I have not forgot you.' So saying, he 
gave ea«h a large piece of gingerbread, which the 
poor fellows eat very heartily, as they had got that 
morning but a very scanty breakfast. 

We now sat down to dinner, which was almost 
cold; but previously, my arm still continuing 
painful, sir William wrote a prescription, for he 
had made the study of physic his amusement and 
was more than moderately skilled in the profession; 
this being sent to an apothecary who lived in the 
place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost 
instantaneous relief. We were waited upon at 
dinner by the jailor himself, who was willing to do 
our guest all the honour in his power. But be- 
fore we had well dined, another message was 
brought from his nephew, desiring permission to 
appear, in order to vindicate his innocence and 
honour, with which request the baronet complied 
and desired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



17« 







CHAPTER XXXI. 



Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest. 

Mr. Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, 
which lie seldom wanted, and was going to embrace 
his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air 
of disdain. ' No fawning, sir, at present,' cried 
the baronet, with a look of severity, ' the only way 
to my heart is by the road of honour ; but here I 
only see complicated instances of falsehood, cow- 
ardice, and oppression. How is it, sir, that this 
poor man, for whom I know you professed a friend- 
ship, is used thus hardly ? His daughter vilely 
seduced, as a recompense for his hospitality, and 
he himself thrown into a prison, perhaps but for 
resenting the insult ? His son, too, whom you 
feared to face as a man — ' 

' Is it possible, sir,' interrupted his nephew, 
' that my uncle should object that as a crime, 
which his repeated instructions alone have per- 
suaded me to avoid ?' 

' Your rebuke,' cried sir William, 'is just ; you 
have acted in this instance prudently and well, 
though not quite as your father would have done : 
my brother indeed was the soul of honour ; but- 
thou yes, you have acted in this instance per- 
fectly right, and it has my warmest approbation.' 

' And I hope,' said his nephew, ' that the rest of 
my conduct will not be found to deserve censure. 
I appeared, sir, with this gentleman's daughter at 
some places of public amusement ; thus, what was 
levity, scandal called by a harsher name, and it 
was reported that I had debauched her. I waited on 
her father in person, willing to clear the thing to his 
satisfaction, and he received me only with insult 
and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his 
being here, my attorney and steward can best in- 
form you, as I commit the management of busi- 
ness entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, 
and is unwilling, or even unable to pay them, it is 
their business to proceed in this manner; and I 
see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most 
legal means of redress.' 

'If this,' cried sir William, ' be as you have 
stated it, there is nothing unpardonable in your 
offences ; and though your conduct might have 
been more generous, in not suffering this gentle- 
man to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet 
it has been at least equitable.' 

' He cannot contradict a single particular,' re- 
plied the 'squire: ' I defy him to do so, and several 
of my servants are ready to attest what I say. 
Thus sir,' continued he. finding that I was silent. 



for in fact I could not contradict him ; ' thus, sir, 
my own innocence is vindicated : but though, at 
your entreaty, I am ready to forgive this gentleman 
every other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me 
in your esteem, excite a resentment that I cannot 
govern ; and this too at a time when his son was 
actually preparing to take away my life ; this, I 
say, was such guilt, that I am determined to let 
the law take its course. I have here the challenge 
that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove it; 
one of my servants has been wounded dangerously; 
and even though my uncle himself should dissuade 
me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public 
justice done, and he shall suffer for it.' 

' Thou monster,' cried my wife, 'hast thou not 
had vengeance enough already, but must my poor 
boy feel thy cruelty ? I hope that good sir William 
will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a 
child ; I am sure he is, and never did harm to man, 
' Madam,' replied the good man, ' your wishes 
for his safety are no greater than mine; but I am 
sorry to find his guilt too plain; and if my nephew 
persists — ' But the appearance of Jenkinson and 
the jailor's two servants now called off our atten- 
tion, who entered hauling in a tall man, very 
genteely dressed, and answering the description 
already given of the ruffian who carried off my 
daughter :— ' Here,' cried Jenkinson, pulling him 
in, ' here, we have him, and if ever there was a 
candidate for Tyburn, this is one.' 

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the pri- 
soner, and Jenkinson, who had him in custody, he 
seemed to shrink back with terror. His face be- 
came pale with conscious guilt, and he would have 
withdrawn; but Jenkinson, who perceived his de- 
sign, stopped him. ' What, 'squire,' cried he-, 
' are you ashamed of your two old acquaintances 
Jenkinson and Baxter ? But this is the way that 
all great men forget their friends, though I am re 
solved we will not forget you. — Our prisoner, please 
your honour,' continued he, turning to sir Wil- 
liam, ' has already confessed all. This is the gen- 
tleman reported to be dangerously wounded : he 
declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put 
him upon this affair ; that he gave him the clothes 
he now wears, to appear like a gentleman, and 
furnished him with a post-chaise. The plan was 
laid between them, that he should carry off the 
young lady to a place of safety, and that there he 
should threaten and terrify her ; but Mr. Thorn- 
hill was to come in, in the mean time, as if by 
accident, to her rescue, and that they should fight 
a while, and then he was to run off, by which 
means Mr. Thornhill would have the better op- 
portunity of gaining her affections himself, under 
the character of her defender.' 

Sir William remembered the coat to have been 
frequently worn by his nephew, and all the rest 
the prisoner himself confirmed by a more circum- 
stantial account : and concluding, said that Mr. 
Thornhill had often declared to him, that he was 
in love with both sisters at the same time. 

' Heavens !' cried sir William, ' what a viper 
have I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond 
of public justice, too, as he seemed to be ! But he 

shall have it; secure him, Mr. Jailor yet hold. 

I fear there is not legal evidence to detain him. 

Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost hu- 
mility, entreated that two such abandoned wretches 
might not be admitted as evidence against him, 
but his servants should be examined. ' Your 
servants !' replied sir William, ' call them yours 



.180 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



no longer : but, come, let us hear what tnose fel- 
lows have to say ; let his butler be called.' 

"When the butler was introduced, he soon per- 
ceived by his former master's looks, that all his 
power was now over. 'Tell me,' cried sir Wil- 
liam sternly, ' have you ever seen your master, 
and that fellow dressed up in his clothes, in com- 
pany together J' — ' Yes, please your honour,' cried 
the butler, ' a thousand times : he was the man 
that always brought him his ladies.' — ' How,' in- 
terrupted young Mr. Thornhill, ' this to my face ?' 
— ' Yes,' replied the butler, • or to any other man's 
face. To tell you a truth, Master Thornhill, I 
never either loved you or liked you, and I don't 
care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.' — 'Now, 
then,' cried Jenkinson, ' tell his honour whether 
you know any thing of me.' — ' I can't say,' replied 
the butler, ' that I know much good of you. The 
night that gentleman's daughter was deluded to 
our house, you were one of them.' — ' So, then,' 
cried sir William, ' I find you have brought a very 
fine witness to prove your innocence : thou stain 
to humanity! to associate with such wretches! 
But (continuing his examination), you tell me, 
Mr. Butler, that this was the person who brought 
him this old gentleman's daughter.' — ' No, please 
your honour,' replied the butler, ' he did not bring 
her, for the 'squire himself undertook that busi- 
ness, but he brought the priest that pretended to 
marry them.' — ' It is but too true,' cried Jenkin- 
son, * I can't deny it ; that was the employment 
assigned to me, and I confess it to my confusion.' 
' Good heavens !' exclaimed the baronet, ' how 
eyery new discovery of his villany alarms me ! all 
his guilt is now too plain, and I find his present 
prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, 
and revenge ; at my request, Mr. Jailor, set this 
young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to 
me for the consequences. I'll make it my business 
to set the affair in a proper light to my friend, the 
magistrate, who has committed him. But where 
is the unfortunate young lady herself? let her ap- 
pear to confront this wretch ; I long to know by 
what arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to 
come in. "Where is she ?' 

• Ah ! sir,' said I, ' that question stings me to 
the heart ; I was once, indeed, happy in a daugh- 
ter, but her miseries — ' Another interruption 
here prevented me; for who should make her ap- 
pearance but Miss Arabella "Wilmot, who was the 
next day to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. 
Nothing could equal her surprise at seeing sir 
"William and his nephew here before her, for her 
arrival was quite accidental. It happened that 
she and the old gentleman, her father, were pass- 
ing. through the town, on the way to her aunt's, 
who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr. Thorn- 
hill should be consummated at her house; but 
stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at 
the other end of the town. It was there, from the 
window, that the young lady happened to observe 
one of my little boys playing in the street, and in- 
stantly sending a footman to bring the child to 
her, she learned from him some account of our 
misfortunes ; but was still kept ignorant of young 
Mr. Thornhill's being the cause. Though her 
father made several remonstrances on the impro- 
priety of her going to a prison to visit us, yet they 
were ineffectual : she desired the child to conduct 
her, which he did, and it was thus she surprised 
us at a juncture so unexpected. 
Nor can I go on, without a reflection on those 



accidental meetings, which, though they happen 
every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon 
some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortui- 
tous occurrence do we not owe every pleasure and 
convenience of our lives! How many seeming 
accidents must unite before we can be clothed or 
fed I The peasant must be disposed to labour, the 
shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, 
or numbers must want the usual supply. 

We all continued silent for some moments, 
while my charming pupil, which was the name I 
generally gave this young lady, united in her 
looks compassion and astonishment, which gave 
new finishing to her beauty. ' Indeed, my dear 
Mr. Thornhill,' cried she to the 'squire, who, she 
supposed, was come here to succour, and not to 
oppress us, ' I take it a little unkindly that you 
should come here without me, or never inform me 
of the situation of a family so dear to us both ; you 
know I should take as much pleasure in contribut- 
ing to the relief of my reverend old master here, 
whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find 
that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing 
good in secret.' 

' He find pleasure in doing good !' cried sir 
William, interrupting her ; ' no, my dear, his 
pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, 
madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced 
humanity. A wretch who, after having deluded 
this poor man's daughter, after plotting against 
the innocence of her sister, has thrown the father 
into prison, and the eldest son into fetters, because 
he had the courage to face her betrayer. And, 
give me leave, madam, now to congratulate vou 
upon an escape from the embraces of sucn a mon 
ster. 

' O goodness,' cried the lovely girl, ' how have I 
been deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me, for 
certain, that this gentleman's eldest son, captain 
Primrose, was gone off to America with his new 
married lady.' 

' My sweetest Miss,' cried my wife, * he has told 
you nothing but falsehoods. My son George'never 
left the kingdom, nor ever was married. Though 
you have forsaken him, he has always loved you 
too well to think of any body else ; and I have 
heard him say he would die a bachelor for your 
sake.' She then proceeded to expatiate upon the 
sincerity of her son's passion : she set his duel with 
Mr. Thornhill in a proper light ; from thence she 
made a rapid digression to the 'squire's debauch- 
eries, his pretended marriages, and ended with a 
most insulting picture of his cowardice. 

' Good heavens !' cried Miss Wilmot, 'how very 
near have I been to the brink of ruin ! But how 
great is my pleasure to have escaped it ! Ten 
thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me I 
He had at last art enough to persuade me that my 
promise to the only man I esteemed was no longer 
binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his 
falsehoods I was taught to detest one equally brave 
and generous !' 

By this time my son was freed from the incum- 
brances of justice, as the person supposed to be 
wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr. 
Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet-de- 
chambre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished 
him with whatever was necessary to make a gen- 
teel appearance. He now, therefore, entered, 
handsomely dressed in his regimentals; and, 
without vanity (for I am above it) he appeared as 
handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress, 



THE VICAR, OF WAKEFIELD. 



181 



As he entered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and 
distant bow, for he was not as yet acquainted with 
the change which the eloquence of his mother had 
wrought in his favour. But no decorums could 
restrain the impatience of his blushing mistress to 
be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed 
to discover the real sensations of her heart, for 
having forgotten her former promise, and having 
suffered herself to be deluded by an impostor. My 
son appeared amazed at her condescension, and 
could scarcely believe it real. — ' Sure, madam,' 
cried he, ' this is but delusion ! I can never have 
merited this ! To be blessed thus is to be too 
happy.' — ' No, sir,' replied she, ' I have been de- 
ceived, basely deceived, else nothing could have 
ever made me unjust to my promise. You know 
my friendship, you have long known it ; but forget 
what I have done, and as you once had my warm- 
est vows of constancy, you shall now have them 
repeated ; and be assured, that if your Arabella 
cannot be yours, she shall never be another's.' — > 
' And no other's you shall be,' cried Sir William, 
' if I have any influence with your father.' 

This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who 
immediately flew to the inn where the old gentle- 
man was, to inform him of every circumstance 
that had happened. But in the meantime, the 
'squire, perceiving that he was on every side un- 
done, now finding that no hopes were left from 
flattery or dissimulation, concluded that his wisest 
way would be to turn and face his pursuers. 
Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared the 
open and hardy villain. ' I find, then,' cried he, 
* that I am to expect no justice here ; but I am 
resolved it shall be done me. You shall know, 
sir, ' turning to Sir William, * I am no longer a 
poor dependant upon your favours. I scorn them. 
Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, 
which, I thank her father's assiduity, is pretty 
large. The articles, and a bond for her fortune, 
are signed, and safe in my possession. It was her 
fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish 
for this match ; and, possessed of the one, let who 
will take the other.' 

This was an alarming blow; sir William was 
sensible of the justice of his claims, for he had 
been instrumental in drawing up the marriage 
articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, per- 
ceiving her fortune was irretrievably lost, turning 
to my son, she asked if the loss of fortune could 
lessen her value to him 1 ' Though fortune,' said 
she, ' is out of my power, at least I have my hand 
to give.' 

• And that, madam,' cried her real lover, ' was, 
indeed, all that you ever had to give: at least, all 
I ever thought worth the acceptance. And, I now 
protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your 
want of fortune, this moment, increases my plea- 
sure, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my 
sincerity.' 

Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little 
pleased at the danger his daughter had just 
escaped, and readily consented to a dissolution of 
the match. But, finding that her fortune, which 
was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not 
be given up, nothing could exceed his disappoint- 
ment. He now saw that his money must all go to 
enrich one who had no fortune of his own. He 
could bear his being a rascal, but to want an equi- 
valent to his daughter's fortune was wormwood. 
He sat, therefore, for some minutes employed in 
the most mortifying speculation, till Sir William 



attempted to lessen his anxiety. ' I must confess, 
sir,' cried he, ' that your present disappointment 
does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate 
passion for wealth is now justly punished. But 
though the young lady cannot be rich, she has still 
a sufficient competence to give content. Here you 
see an honest young soldier, who is willing to take 
her without fortune ; they have long loved each 
other ; and, for the friendship I bear his father, 
my insterest shall not be wanting in his promotion. 
Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, 
and for once admit that happiness which courts 
your acceptance.' 

' Sir William,' replied the old gentleman, 'be as- 
sured I never yet forced her inclinations, nor will 
1 now. If she still continues to love this young 
gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. 
There is still, thank heaven, some fortune left, and 
your promise will, make it something more. Only 
let my old friend here (meaning me) give me a 
promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my 
girl, if ever he should come to his fortune, and I 
am ready this night to be the first to join them 
together.' 

As it now remained with me to make the young 
couple happy, I readily gave a promise of making 
the settlement he required, which, to one who had 
such little expectations as I, was no great favour. 
We had now, therefore, the satisfaction of seeing 
them fly into each other's arms in a transport. 
' After all my misfortunes,' cried my son George, 
' to be thus rewarded ! Sure this is more than I 
could ever have presumed to hope for. To be 
possessed of all that'3 good, and after such an 
interval of pain ! My warmest wishes could never 
rise so high ! ' 

' Yes, my George,' returned his lovely bride, 
' now let the wretch take my fortune ; since you 
are happy without it.so am I. O what an exchange 
have I made from the basest of men to the dearest, 
best! Let him enjoy our fortune, I now can be 
happy even in indigence.' — * And I promise you,' 
cried the 'squire, with a malicious grin, * that I 
shall be very happy with what you despise.*— 
' Hold, hold, sir,' cried Jenkinson, 'there are two 
words to that bargain. As for that lady's fortune 
sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it. 
Pray, your honour,' continued he to Sir William, 
' can the 'squire have this lady's fortune if he be 
married to another ?' — ' How can you make such 
a simple demand 1" replied the baronet, 'undoubt- 
edly he cannot.' — « I am sorry for that,' cried 
Jenkinson ; ' for as this gentleman and I have 
been old fellow-sporters, 1 have a friendship for 
him. But I must declare, well as I love him, 
that his contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, 
for he is married already.' — ' You lie like a ras- 
cal,' returned the 'squire, who seemed roused 
by this insult ; ' I never was legally married to 
any woman.' 

'Indeed, begging your honour's pardon, 'replied 
the other, ' you were ; and I hope you will show 
a proper return of friendship to your own honest 
Jenkinson, who brings you a wife, and if the 
company restrains their curiosity a few minutes, 
they shall see her.' So saying, he went off with 
the usual celerity, and left us all unable to'form 
any probable conjecture as to his design. ' Ay, 
let him go,' cried the 'squire ; ' whatever else I 
may have done, I defy him there. 1 am too old 
now to be frightened with squibs.' 

* I am surprised,' said the baronet, ' what the 



182 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



fellow can intend by this. Some low piece ol 
humour I suppose !' — ' Perhaps, sir,' replied I, ' he 
may have a more serious meaning. For when we 
reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has 
laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more 
artful than the rest has been found able to deceive 
him. "When we consider what numbers he has 
ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish 
the infamy and the contamination which he has 
brought into their families, it would not surprise 

me if some one of them Amazement ! Do I see 

my long lost daughter ! Do I hold her ? It is, it is 
my life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, my 
Olivia, yet still I hold thee — and still thou shah 
live to bless me.' The warmest transports of the 
fondest lover were not greater than mine when 1 
saw him introduce my child, and held my daughtei 
in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. 
' And art thou returned to me, my darling, 
cried I, ' to be my comfort in age V — ' That she is,' 
cried Jenkinson, ' and make much of her, for she 
is your own honourable child, and as honest a 
woman as any in the whole room, let the other be 
who she will. And as for you, 'squire, as sure as 
you stand there, this young lady is your lawfiu 
wedded wife. And to convince you that I speak 
nothing but truth, here is the licence by which 
you were married together.' So saying, he put the 
licence into the baronet's hands, who read it, and 
found it perfect in every respect. ' And now, 
gentlemen,' continued he, ' I find you are surprised 
at all this ; but a few words will explain the diffi- 
culty. That there 'squire of renown, for whom 1 
have a great friendship, but that's between our- 
selves, has often employed me in doing odd little 
things for him. Among the rest he commissioned 
me to procure him a false licence and a false priest, 
in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was 
very much his friend, what did I do, but went 
and got a true licence, and a true priest, and mar- 
ried them both as fast as the cloth, could make 
them. Perhaps you'll think it was generosity that 
made me do all this. Butno. To my shame I 
confess it, my only design was to keep the licence, 
and let the 'squire know that I could prove .it 
upon him whenever I thought proper, and so 
make him come down whenever I wanted money.' 
A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole 
apartment ; our joy reached even to the common 
room, where the prisoners themselves sympathized, 

And shook their chains 

In transport, and rude harmony. 

Happiness was expanded upon ever face, and 
even Olivia's cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. 
To be thus restored to reputation, to friends and 
fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop 
the progress of decay, and restore former health 
and vivacity. But perhaps among all, there was 
not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still 
holding the dear-loved child in my arms, I asked 
my heart if these transports were not delusion 
' How could you,' cried I, turning to Mr. Jenkin- 
son, ' how could you add to my miseries by the 
story of her death ? But it matters not ; my plea- 
sure at finding her again is more than a recom- 
pense for the pain.' 

' As to your question,' replied Jenkinson, ' that 
is easily answered. I thought the only probable 
means of freeing you from prison, was by sub- 
mitting to the 'squire, and consenting to his 
marriage with the other young lady. But these 
you had vowed never to grant while your daughter 



was living; there was therefore, no other method 
to bring things to bear, but by persuading you 
that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to 
ioin in the deceit, and we have not had a fit op- 
portunity of undeceiving you till now.' 

In the whole assembly now, there only appeared 
two faces that did not glow with transport. Mr. 
Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him ; 
he now saw the gulf of infamy and want before 
him, and trembled to take the plunge. He there- 
fore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a 
voice of piercing misery implored compassion. 
Sir William was going to spurn him away, but at 
my request he raised him, and after pausing a few 
moments, ' Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,' 
cried he, ' deserve no tenderness ; yet thou shalt 
not be entirely forsaken, a bare competence shall 
bei supplied to support the wants of life, but not its 
follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall be put 
in possession of a third part of that fortune which 
once was thine, and from her tenderness alone 
thou art to expect any extraordinary supplies for 
the future.' He was going to express his grati. 
tude for such kindness in a set speech ; but the 
baronet prevented him by bidding him not aggra- 
vate his meanness, which was already but too 
apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be 
gone, and from all his former domestics to choose 
one such as he should think proper, which was all 
that should be granted to attend him.' 

As soon as he left us, sir William very politely 
stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and 
wished her joy. His example was followed by 
Miss Wilmot and her father ; my wife too kissed 
her daughter with much affection, as, to use her 
own expression, she was now made an honest wo- 
man of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and 
even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be ad- 
mitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed 
scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, whose 
greatest pleasure was in doing good, now looked 
round with a countenance open as the sun, and 
saw nothing but joy in the looks of all except that 
of my daughter Sophia, who for some reasons we 
could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly 
satisfied. ' I think now,' cried he, with a smile, 
'that all the company except one or two seem 
perfectly happy. There only remains an act of 
justice for me to do. You are sensible, sir,' con- 
tinued he, turning to me, ' of the obligations we 
both owe to Mr. Jenkinson. And it is but just 
we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia 
will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he 
shall have from me five hundred pounds as her 
fortune, and upon this I am sure they can live 
very comfortably together. Come, Miss Sophia, 
what say you to this match of my making? Will 
you have him?' My poor girl seemed almost 
sinking into her mother's arms at this hideous 
proposal. ' Have him, sir !' cried she faintly, 'no, 
sir, never.' — 'What,' cried he again, 'not have 
Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome 
young fellow with five hundred pounds and good 
expectations !' — ' I beg, sir,' returned she, scarcely 
able to speak, 'that you'll desist and not make 
me so very wretched.' — ' Was ever such obstinacy 
known,' cried he again, ' to refuse a man whom 
the family has such infinite obligations to, who 
has preserved your sister, and who has five hun- 
dred pounds ! What, not have him !' — ' No, sir 
never,' replied she angrily, ' I'd sooner die first.' — 
•If that be the case then,' cried he, 'if you will 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFHLD. 



184 



not have him, 1 think I must have you mysei 
And so saying, he caught her to his breast with 
ardour. ' My loveliest, my most sensible of girls,' 
cried he, « how could you ever think your own 
Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William 
Thornhill could ever cease to admire a mistress 
that loved him for himself alone ? I have for 
some years sought for a woman, who, a stranger 
to my fortune, could think that I had merit as a 
man. After having tried in vain, even amongst 
the pert and the ugly, how great at last must be 
my rapture to have made a conquest over such 
sense and such heavenly beauty.' Then turning to 
Jenkinson, 'As I cannot, sir, part with this young 
lady myself, for she has taken a fancy to the cut of 
my face, all the recompense I can make is to give 
you her fortune, and you may call upon my stew- 
ard to-morrow for five hundred pounds. ' Thus we 
had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady 
Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony 
that her sister had done before. In the meantime, 
Sir William's gentleman appeared, to tell us that 
the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, 
where everything was prepared for our reception. 
My wife and I led the van, and left those gloomy 
mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet or- 
dered forty pounds to be distributed among the 
prisoners,andMr.Wilmot,inducedbyhis example, 
gave half that sum. We were received below by 
the shouts of the villagers ; and I saw and shook 
by the hand two or three of my honest parishion- 
ers who were among the number. They attended 
us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertainment 
was provided, and coarser provisions were dis- 
tributed in great quantities among the populace. 
After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by 
tne alternation of pleasure and pain which they 
had sustained during the day, I asked permission 
to withdraw, and, leaving the company in the 
midst of their mirth, as soon as I found myself 
alone, 1 poured out my heart in gratitude to the 
Giver of joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept 
undisturbed till morning. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Conclusion. 
The next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found 
my eldest son sitting by my bed-side ; who came to 
increase my joy with another turn of fortune in 
my favour. First, having released me from the 
settlement that I had made the day before in his 
favour, he let me know that my merchant who 
had failed in town was arrested at Antwerp, and 
there had given up effects to a much greater 
amonnt than what was due to hi3 creditors. My 
boy's generosity pleased me almost as much as 
this unlooked for good fortune. But I had some 
doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his 
offer. While I was pondering upon this, Sir Wil- 
liam entered the room, to whom I communicated 
my doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was 
already possessed of a very affluent fortune by his 
marriage, I might accept his offer without any 
hesitation. His business, however, was to inform 
me, that as he had the night before sent for the 
licences, and expected them every hour, he hoped 
that I would not refuse my assistance in making 
all the company happy that morning. *A footman 
entered while we were speaking, to tell us that 
the messenger was returned, and as I was by this 



time ready, I went down, where I found the 
whole company as merry as affluence and inno 
cence could make them. However, as they were 
now preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their 
laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of 
the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment 
they should assume upon this mystical occasion, 
and read them two homilies and a thesis of my 
composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they 
still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovern- 
able. Even as we were going along to church, to 
which I led the way, all gravity had quite for- 
saken them, and I was often tempted to turn 
back in indignation. In church a new dilemma 
arose, which promised no easy solution. This 
was which couple should be married first; my 
son's bride warmly insisted, that lady Thornhill 
(that was to be) should take the lead ; but this 
the other refused with equal ardour, protesting 
she would not be guilty of so much rudeness for the 
world. The argument was supported for some 
time between both with equal obstinacy and good- 
breeding. But, as I stood all this time with my 
book ready, I was at last quite tired of the con- 
test, and shutting it. ' I perceive,' cried, I, ' that 
none of you have a mind to be married, and I 
think we had as good go back again ; for I sup- 
pose there will be no business done here to-day.' 
—This at once reduced them to reason. The ba- 
ronet and his lady were first married, and then 
my son and his lovely partner. 

I had previously that morning given orders that 
a coach should be sent for my honest neighbour 
Flamborough and his family, by which means, 
upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure 
of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted 
before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the 
eldest, and my son Moses led up the other ; (and 
I have since found that he has taken a real liking 
to the girl, and my consent and bounty he shall 
have whenever he thinks proper to demand them. ) 
We were no sooner returned to the inn, but 
numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my suc- 
cess, came to congratulate me ; but among the 
rest were those who rose to rescue me, and whom 
I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told 
the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who 
went out and reproved them with great severity ; 
but finding them quite disheartened by his harsh 
reproof, he gave them half a guinea a piece to 
drink his health and raise their dejected spirits. 

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel 
entertainment, which was dressed by Mr. Thorn, 
hill's cook. And it may not be improper to ob- 
serve with respect to that gentleman, that he now 
resides in quality of companion at a relation's 
house, being very well liked, and seldom at the 
side table, except when there is no room at the 
other, for they make no stranger of him. His 
time is pretty much taken up in keeping his 
relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and 
in learning to blow the French horn. My eldest 
daughter, however, still remembers him with 
regret ; and she has even told me, though I make 
a great secret of it, that when he reforms, she 
may be brought to relent. But to return, for I 
am not apt to digress thus : when we were to sit 
down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be 
renewed. The question was whether my eldest 
daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above 
the two young brides, but the debate was cut short 
by my sonGeorge, who proposed that the company 






184 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



' 



should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman by 
his lady. This was received with great approba- 
tion by all, excepting my wife, who, I could per- 
ceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected 
to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of 
the table and carving all the meat for all the com- 
pany. But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible 
to describe our good humour. I cannot say whe- 
ther we had more wit among us than usual, but 
I am certain we had more laughing, which an- 
swered the end as well. One jest, I particularly 
remember; old Mr. Wilmot drinking to Moses, 
whose head was turned another way, my son re- 
plied, ' madam, I thank you.' Upon which the 



old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the com- 
pany, observed, that he was thinking of his mis- 
tress. At which jest I thought the two Miss 
Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. 
As soon as dinner was over, according to my old 
custom, I requested that the table might be taken 
away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family 
assembled once more by a cheerful fire-side. My 
two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the 
company by their partners. I had nothing now 
on this side of the grave to wish for, all my cares 
were over, my pleasure was unspeakable. It 
now only remained that my gratitude in good 
fortune should exceed my former submission in 
adversity. 



POEMS AND PLAYS 







E-en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
1 »it me down a pensive hour to spend." 



& f) e CrabelUr, 

4*. 4-c. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies : 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee;. 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
vVhere all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care : 
ImpelTd with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; 
That like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies : 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 



E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And placed on high, above the storm's career, 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear : 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom 

vain? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind, 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour 

crown'd ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; 
For me your tributary stores combine : 
Creation's heir, the world — the world is mine. 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ; 
" Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- 
plies ; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
And oft 1 wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope a« 

rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease. 
The naked negro, panting at the Line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave 
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind : 
As different good, by art or nature given 
To different nations, makes their blessings ever.. 



186 



GOLDSMITH'S MISCEELANEOIS WORKS. 



Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent ; 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content : 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment 

fails ; 
And honour sinks, where commerce long pre- 
vails. 
Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; 
Till, carried to excess in each domain, 
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes^ 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
Here for a while, my proper cares resigri'd, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Appennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely bless'd. 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted fault's through all his manners reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, 

vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind : 
For wealth was theirs, nor far removed the date, 
When commerce proudly flourished through the 

state : 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
The canvass glow'd, beyond e'en Nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form ; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
While nought remain'd, of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a Slave ; 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied, 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
B 2 



Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 

The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade ; 

Processions form'd for piety and love, 

A mistress or a saint in every grove. 

By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 

The sports of children satisfy the child ; 

Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 

While low delights succeeding fast behind, 

In happier meanness occupy the mind : 

As in those domes, where Cassars once bora 

sway, 
Defaced by time, and tott'ring in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; 
And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ! turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions 

tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
No product here the barren hills afford, 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter ling'ring ehills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
Yet still, even here, content can spread a 
charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though 

small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the 

way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labour sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
And haply too some pilgrim thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those hills, that round his mansion 

rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms > 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all cpnfin'd ; 
Yet let them only share the praises due, 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; 
For every want that stimulates the breast, 
Becomes a source ol pleasure when iediesa : d. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



r>( 



Hence from such lands each pleasing science 

flies, 
That first excites desire and then supplies. 
Unknown to them when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to 

flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vihrate through the frame : 
Their level life is hut a smould'ring fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a-year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son, 
Unalter'd, unimproved, the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm 

the way, 
These, far dispersed on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn ; and France displays her bright domain ; 
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 

please, , 

How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murm'ring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew; 
And haply, though my harsh touch, falt'ring 

still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's 

skill ; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful 

maze; 
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
For honour forms the social temper here : 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or even imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand 
It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land : 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, 
Till, seeming bless'd. they grow to what they 

seem. 
But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It- gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise, too dearly loved or warmly sought. 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; 
And the weak soul, within itself unbless'd, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
To boast one splendid banquet once a-year;; 



>-\e mind still turns where shifting fashion 

draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onwards, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore : 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
Are here display'd. Their much loved wealth 

imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear ; 
Even liberty itself is barter'd here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves ; 
And calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind. 
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great. 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand, 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagined right, above control; 
While even the peasant boasts these rights to 

scan, 
And Jearns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured 
here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
Too bless'd indeed were such without alloy, 
But foster'd even by Freedom, ills annoy: 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown 
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd. 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Repress'd ambition struggles rounder shore; 



i 



188 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Till, over-wrought, the general system feels 
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when, stripp'd of all hex 

charms, 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets writ for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 

Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state. 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fost'ring sun, 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime en- 
dure, 
I only would repress them to. secure; 
For just experience tells, in every soil, 
That these who think must govern those who toil, 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each : 
Hence, should one order disproportion^ grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

O then how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is m-j soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast approaching danger warms : 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal power; 
And thus polluting honour in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers, brighl'ning as they waste ; 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
In barren, solitary pomp repose ? 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main, 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound? 
E'en now, perhaps, as there seme pilgrim 
strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous 
ways; 



Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, * 
The pensive exile bending with his wo, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his'bosom sympathize with mine. 
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! 

j Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 

S Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown,* and Damien's bed of steel, 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



Elje Uesertefc UUIage. 



Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring 

swain, 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm, 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring 

hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! 
How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
When toil remitting, lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train from labour free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old surveyM ; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went rounds 
And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; 

* In the Respublica Hungariea, there is an account of 
a desperate rebellion in the year 1514, headed by two bro 
thers, George and Luke Zeck. When it was quelled 
George, not Luke, was punished by his head being encir- 
cled with a red-hot iron crown. Mr. Boswell pointed out 
Goldsmith's mistake. 



POEMS AND PJLAYS. 



189 



The dancing pair, that simply sought renown, 
.By holding out to tire each other down : 
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
prove : 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please : 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 

shed, 
These were thy charms— but all these charms are 
fled. 
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn : 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green; 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade, 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. , 

But times are alter'd : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

scene, 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green ; 
These far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 

grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
In all my wand'rings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs— and God has giv'n my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes— for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill, 



Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return— and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine ; 
How bless'd is he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
"--'Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 
close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering 

wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, .. 
But all the blooming flush of life is fled : 
AH but yon widow'd solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread ; 
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
j Near yonder copse,where once the garden smiled, 
«: And still where many a garden-flower grows wild^ 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose^ 
The village-preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year : 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed nor wish'd to change his 

place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were 



190 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



rieased with his guests, the good man learn'd to 

glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their wo ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch (o raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's •' 

smile ; 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 

tress'd ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 



Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 

spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face;- 
Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd: 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew; 
'Twas certain he could write and cypher too; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge : 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 
For e'en though vanquish' d, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length, and thundering 

sound, 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. ' 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired, 
Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil re- 
tired, 



Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro- 
found, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor. 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the 

door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
Vain, transitory splendours! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes 1 let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their firstborn sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart, distrusting, asks if .this be joy? 
- Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
And rich men flock from ah the world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride, 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their 

growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure, alT 
In barren splendour feebly waits its fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress sup- 
plies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



191 



But when those charms are past, for charms are 

frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd ; 
In Nature's simplest charms at first array'd : 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' wo. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies his sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps 

display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy 1 
Sure these denote one universal joy 1 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah ! turn thine 

eyes 
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies : 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest 

train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their wo. 
Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters «ling ; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance 

crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they 



While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only sheiter'd thefts of harmless love. 

Good heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that part- 
ing day 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their 

last, 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep ! 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' wo ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms : 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O, luxury ! thou curs'd by heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo ; 
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part un- 
sound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done; 
E'en new, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 

sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore and darken all the strand : 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid ! 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame : 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 
Farewell ! and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 



192 



GOLDSMITH 8 MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, 
Though very poor, may still be very bless'd ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 




1 Here, porter— this venison with me to Mile-end ; 
No stirring, I beg— my dear friend— my dear friend ! " 



Cfje $auitcf) of Venison. 

A poetical epistle to Lord Clare. 

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or 

fatter 
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help 

regretting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view, 
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu : 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show : 



But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in 
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pro 

nounce, 
This tale of the bacon 's a damnable bounce ? 
Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my 

turn, 
It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr 

Burn.* 
To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch ; 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose— 
Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Mon- 
roe's : 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 
With the how, and the who, and the where, and 

the when. 
There's H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— -ff, 
I think they love venison — I know they love beef: 
There's my countryman Higgins — 01 let him 

alone, 
For making a blunder, or picking a bone : 
But, hang it ! to poets who seldom can eat, 
Your very good mutton 's a very good treat ; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, 
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, 
An acquaintance — a friend as he call'd himself— 

enter'd : 
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me . 
' What have we got here ? — Why this is good 

eating !' 
Your own, I suppose— or is it in waiting V 
1 Why, whose should it be ?' cried I, with a 

flounce; 
' I get these things often ;'— but that was a 

bounce, 
' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the 

nation, 
Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' 
' If that be the case, then,' cried he, very gay, 
' I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
No words — I insist on't — precisely at three ; 
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will 

be there ; 
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. 
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
What say you — a pasty? it shall, and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end ; 
No stirring, I beg — my dear friend — my dear 

friend!' 
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the 

wind, 
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And ' nobody with me at sea but myself;'* 
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman 

hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 

* Lord Clare's nephew. 

* See the letters which paised between His Royal High- 
ness Henry, Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



193 



So next day, in due splendour, to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. 
When come to the place where we all were to 

dine, 
(A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine,) 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite 

dumb, 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not 

come; 
' For I knew it,' he cried, ' both eternally fail, 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale : 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew ; 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you : 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some thinks he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge. ' 
While thus he described them, by trade and by 

name, 
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 

At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen ; 
At the bottom, was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides, there was spinage, and pudding made 

hot; 
In the middle, a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like ahorse in a pound, 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
But what vex'd me most was that d 'd Scot- 
tish rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and 

his brogue : 
And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my 

poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' 
1 The tripe!' quoth the Jew, ' if the truth ,1 may 

speak, 
I could dine on this tripe seven days in a-week : 
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at 

all.' 
'O ho !' quoth my friend, ' he'll come on in a 

trice, 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
There's a pasty.' — ' A pasty !' repeated the Jew, 
' I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 
• What the deil, mon, a pasty !' re-echo'd the Scot ; 
' Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.' 
' We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out; 
' We'll all keep a corner,' was echo'd about. 
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, 
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : 
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. 
But we quickly found out, (for who could mistake 

her?) 
That she came with some terrible news from the 

baker : 
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
Sad Philomel thus— but let similes drop — 
And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 

To be plain.my good lord,it's but labour misplac'd, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
You've got an odd something— a kind of discern- 
ing— 
A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 
At least it 's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that 's your own ; 



So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of 
this. 



RETALIATION, 

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774. 

[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined 
at St. James's Coffeehouse. One day it was proposed to 
write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, 
furnished objects of witticism. He was called on for 
Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the 
following poem.] 

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was 

united. 
If our landlord > supplies us with beef and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the ' 

best dish : 
Our Dean 2 shall be venison, just fresh from the 

plains ; 
Our Burke 3 shall be tongue, with a garnish of 

brains ; 
Our Will 4 shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, 
And Dick 5 with his pepper shall heighten the 

savour ; 
Our Cumberland's 6 sweetbread its place shall 

obtain, 
And Douglas 7 is pudding, substantial and plain; 
Our Garrick's s a sallad, for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
That Ridge 9 is anchovy, and Reynolds 10 is lamb ; 
That Hickey's " a capon, and, by the same rule, 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton and stick to the last? 
Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth, 
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 
At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was 

such, 
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind : 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining 

his throat, 
To persuade Tommy Townshend 12 to lend him a 

vote; 

1 The master of St. James's coffeehouse, where tne 
Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in his poem, 
occasionally dined— 2 Dr. Bernard, Dean of Derry, in 
Ireland.— 3 Edmund Burke, Esq. — 1 Mr. William Burke, 
late secretary to General Conway. — 5 Mr. Richard Burke, 
collector of Grenada. — 6 Richard Cumberland, Esq., au- 
thor ot the West Indian,' * Fashionable Lover,' « The 
Brothers.' hnA other dramatic pieces.— 7 Mr. Douglas, 
Canon of Windsor, and Bishop of Salisbury, an ingenious 
Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself a 
citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting seve- 
ral literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his country - 
men; particularly Lauder on Milton and Bower's History 
of the Popes. — 8 David Garrick, Esq.— 9 Counsellor John 
Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.— 10 Sir 
Joshua Reynolds.— 11 An eminent attorney.— 18 Mr. T 
Townshend, member for Whitchurch. 



194 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on re- 
fining, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining : 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, 

sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
Here lies honest William, 13 whose heart was a 

mint, 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that 

was in't ; 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had 

none; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were 

his own. 
Here lies honest Richard, 14 whose fate I must 

sigh at ; 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at Old 

Nick- 
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often Ave wish'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland ^ lies, having acted his parts 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their 

own, 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught, 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

Here Douglas is retires from his toils to relax, 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking di- 
vines 
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant 

reclines • 
When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
Our Dodds * 7 shall be pious, our Kenricks 18 shall 

lecture ; 

13 Vide page 34.— 14 Vide Mr. Richard Burke; vide 
page 34. 

15 Vide page 34.— 16 Vide page 34.— 17 The Rev. Dr. 
Dodd. — 18 Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil 
Tavern, under the title of ' The School of ihiikspeare.' 



Macpherson is write bombast, and call it a style; 
Our Townshend 2 ° make speeches, and I shall 

compile : 
New Lauders 31 and Bowers the Tweed shall cross 

over, 
No countryman living their tricks to discover; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in 

the dark. 
Here lies David Garrick, 22 describe him who 

can, 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a-day : 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick: 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle 

them back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease, 
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, 23 ye Kellys, «* and Woodfalls «s so 

grave, 
What a commerce was yours, while you got and 

you gave ! 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you 

raised, 
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be- 

praised ! 
But peace to his spirit wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and 

with love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
Here Hickey 26 reclines, a most blunt pleasant 

creature, 
And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper; 
Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no! 
Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn 

ye: 
He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 
Here Reynolds 27 is laid, and, to tell you my 

mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 

19 James Macpherson, Esq., who, from the mere force of 
his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. — 20 
Vide page 35 — 21 Vide page 35.— 22 Ibid. 

23 Vide page 37.— 24 Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of ' False 
Delicacy,' * Word to the Wise,' ' Clementina,' * School 
for Wives,' &c. &c— 25 Mr. William Woodfall, printer of 
the Morning Chronicle.— 26 Vide p. 34.-27 Vide p. 84. 



POEMS AND PIAYS. 



195 



His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
Still born to improve us in every part, 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
When they judged without skill, he was still hard 

of hearing: 
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and 

stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet, 28 and only took snuff, 



POSTSCRIPT. 

[After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the 
Publisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. White- 
foord, 1 from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.] 

Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, 
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave 2 man : 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun ; 
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ; 
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill : 
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 

What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
Yet content ' if the table he set in a roar ;' 
Whose talents to fill any station were fit, 
Yet happy if Woodfall 3 confess'd him a wit. 

Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes ; 
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : 
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
Cross-readings, ship news, and mistakes of the 

press. * 
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I 

admit 
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said 

wit. 
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
' Thou best humour'd man, with the worst hu- 

mour'd Muse.' 

28 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to 
be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. 

1 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous es- 
says. — 2 Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Gold- 
smith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, 
without being infected with the itch of punning. 

3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser 
4 Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with 
humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Ad- 
vertiser. 




Cfje 



evmit. 



' Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 

And guide my lonely way, 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 

' For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow, 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go.' 

• Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries, 
* To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

' Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

* Then turn to night, and freely share 

Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
My rushy couch, and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

' No flocks, that range the valley free, 

To slaughter I condemn ; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

' But from the mountain's grassy side, 

A guiltless feast I bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 

And water from the spring. 

' Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong : 
Man wants but little here below, 
. Nor wants that little long.' 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Requir'd a master's care ; 
The wicket, op'ning with a latch, 

Receiv'd the harmless pair. 



196 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



And now, when busy crowds retire, 

To take their ev'ning rest, 
The hermit trimm'd his little fire, 

And cheer'd his pensive guest : 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gayly press'd, and smiled ; 

And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries, 
The cricket chirrups on the hearth, 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's wo ; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied, 
With answering care oppress'd : 

And • Whence, unhappy youth,' he cried 
• The sorrows of thy breast? 

• From better habitations spurn'd, 

Reluctant dost thou rove? 
Or grieve for friendship unretum'd, 

Or unregarded love ? * 

' Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things 

More trifling still than they. 

' And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep; 
A shade that follows wealth or face, 

And leaves the wretch to weep? 

' And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest ; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

' For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the sex,' he said ; 
But while he spoke, a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 

Swift mantling to the view ; 
Like colours o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms ; 
The lovely stranger stands confess'd 

A maid in all her charms. 

And, ' Ah, forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn,' she cried ; 
Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 

'But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

' My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 

He had but only me. 

To win me from his tender arms, 
Unnumber'd suitors came, 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 
And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 



1 Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove ; 
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
But never talk'd of love. 

' In humble, simplest habit clad, 
No wealth nor power had he ; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 

1 The blossom opening to the day, 

The dews of heaven refined, 
Could nought of purity display 

To emulate his mind. 

• The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine : 

Their charms were his, but, wo to me, 
Their constancy was mine. 

' For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumph'din his pain: 

' Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

' But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

And well my life shall pay; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

' And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I.' 

' Forbid it heaven !' the Hermit cried, 
And clasp'd her to his breast : 

The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide— 
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 

' Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restor'd to love and thee. 

1 Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign : 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that's mine ? 

' No, never from this hour to part, 

We'll live and love so true, 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too.' 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

X TALE. 

Secluded from domestic strife, 
Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 
A fellowship, at twenty-five 
Made him the happiest man alive ; 
He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, 
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 
Such pleasures unalloy'd-with care, 
Could any accident impair? 
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? 
Oh, had the archer ne'er come down 
To ravage in a country town ! 
Or Flavia been content to stop 
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop I 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 197 


Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 




Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 


In vain she tries her paste and creams 


Oh ! — but let exclamation cease, 


To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; 


Her presence banish'd all his peace ; 


Her country beaux and city cousins, 


So with decorum all things carried, 


Lovers no more, flew off by dozens; 


Miss frown'd and blush'd, and then was — 


The 'squire himself was seen to yield, 


married. 


And ev'n the captain quit the field. 


Need we expose to vulgar sight 


Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 


The raptures of the bridal night? 


The rest of life with anxious Jack, 


Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, 


Perceiving others fairly flown, 


Or draw the curtains closed around? 


Attempted pleasing him alone. 


Let it suffice that each had charms : 


Jack soon was dazzled to behold 


He clasp'd a goddess in his arms ; 


Her present face surpass the old : 


And though she felt his usage rough, 


With modesty her cheeks are dyed, 


Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 


Humility displaces pride; 


The honey-moon like lightning flew, 


For tawdry finery is seen 


The second brought its transports too ; 


A person ever neatly clean ; 


A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 


No more presuming on her sway, 


The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss. 


She learns good nature every day : 


But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 


Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 


Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 


Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 


Found half the charms that deck'd her 

face 
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 




1 


But still the worst remain'd behind, — 




That very face had robb'd her mind. 


THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 


Skill'd in no other arts was she, 




But dressing, patching, repartee; 


IN IMITATION OV DEAN SWIFT. 


And, just as humour rose or fell, 




By turns a slattern or a belle. 

'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, 

Half naked, at a ball or race ; 


Logicians have but ill defin'd 
As rational the human mind : 
Reason, they say, belongs to man, 


But when at home, at board or bed, 


But let them prove it if they can. 


Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head. 


Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 


Could so much beauty condescend 


By ratiocinations specious, 


To be a dull, domestic friend ? 


Have strove to prove, with great precision, 


Could any curtain lectures bring 
To decency so fine a thing? 


With definition and division, 
Homo est ratione preditum ; 


In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; 


But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; 


By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. 


And must in spite of them maintain, 


Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee; 


That man and all his ways are vain ; 


And that this boasted lord of nature 


The 'squire and captain took their stations, 
And twenty other near relations : 


Is both a weak and erring creature. 
That instinct is a surer guide 


Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 


Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 


A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 


And that brute beasts are far before 'em — 


While all their hours were pass'd between 


Deus est anima brutorum. 


Insulting repartee and spleen. 

Thus, as her faults each day were known, 


Who ever knew an honest brute 
At law his neighbour prosecute, 


He thinks her features coarser grown ; 


Bring action for assault and battery ? 


He fancies every vice she shows, 


Or friend beguile with lies and flattery: 


Or thins her lip, or points her nose; 


O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd, 


Whenever rage or envy rise, 


No politics disturb their mind ; 


How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! 


They eat their meals, and take their sport, 


He knows not how, but so it is, 


Nor know who's in or out at court ; 


Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 


They never to the levee go 


And though her fops are wondrous civil, 


To treat as dearest friend a foe ; 


He thinks her ugly as the devil. 


They never importune his grace, 


Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 


Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 


As each a different way pursues, 
While sullen or loquacious strife 


Nor undertake a dirty job, 

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob. 


Promised to hold them on for life, 


Fraught with invective, they ne'er go 


That dire disease, whose ruthless power 


To folks at Paternoster Row : 


Withers the beauty's transient flower, — 


No jugglers, fiddlers, dancing masters, 


Lo ! the small-pox, with horrid glare, 


No pickpockets or poetasters, 


Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; 


Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 


And, rifling every youthful grace, 


No single brute his fellows leads. 


Left but the remnant of a face. 


Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 


The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 


Nor cut each others' throats for pay. 


Reflected now a perfect fright : 


Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape 


Each former art she vainly tries 


Comes nearest us in human shape : 


To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 


Like man, he imitates each fashion, 
And malice is his ruling passion ; 



198 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



But both in malice and grimaces, 
A eotirtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him humbly cringing wait 
Upon the minister of state ; 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air, 
And to perform takes .equal care. 
He in his turn finds imitators ; 
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
Their master's manners still contract, 
And footmen lords and dukes can act. 
Thus at the court, both great and small 
Behave alike — for all ape all. 



A NEW SIMILE. 

in the manner of swift. 

Long had I sought in vain to find 
A likeness for the scribbling kind — 
The modern scribbling kind, who write 
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite — 
Till reading — I forget what day on — 
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
I think I met with something there 
To suit my purpose to a hair. 
But let us not proceed too furious, — 
First please to turn to god Mercurius: 
You'll find him pictured at full length, 
In book the second, page the tenth : 
The stress of all my proofs on bim I lay, 
And now proceed we to our simile. 

Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 
Wings upon either side — mark that. 
Well ! what is it from thence we gather ? 
Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
A brain of feather ! very right, 
With wit that's flighty, learning light; 
Such as to modern bard's decreed : 
A just comparison — proceed. 

In the next place his feet peruse, 
Wings grow again from both his shoes; 
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, 
And waft his godship through the air : 
And here my simile unites; 
For in a modern poet's flights, 
I 'm sure it may be justly said, 
His feet are useful as his head. 

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, 
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand; 
By classic authors term'd caduceus, 
And highly famed for several uses : 
To wit, — most wond'rously endued, 
No poppy-water half so good ; 
For let folks only get a touch, 
Its soporific virtue 's such, 
Though ne'er so much awake before, 
That quickly they begin to snore; 
Add, too, what certain writers tell, 
With these he drives men's souls to hell. 

Now to apply, begin we then — 
His wand 's a modern author's pen ; 
The serpents round about it twined 
Denote him of the reptile kind , 
Denote the rage with which he writes, 
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ; 
An equal semblance still to keep, 
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep ; 
This difference only, as the god 
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 



With his goose-quill, the scribbling elf, 
Instead of others damns himself. 

And here my simile almost tript. 
Yet grant a word by way of postscript. 
Moreover, Merc'ry, had a failing; 
Well ! what of that ?— out with it — stealing ; 
In which all modern bards agree, 
Being each as great a thief as he. 
But even this deity's existence 
Shall lend my simile assistance. 
Our modern bards ! why what a pox 
Are they, but senseless stones and blocks if 




it &utf)or'<» H$e& = orjjamfcet\ 



Where the Red Lion, flaring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black c! 



Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane : 
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 
The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ; 
A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray, 
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; 
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 
The royal game of goose was there in view, 
And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew ; 
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-bliick 
face. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 199 


The morn was cold; he views -with keen desire 


She strove the neighbourhood to please, 


The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire ; 


With manners wond'rous winning ; 


"With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scored, 


And never follow'd wicked ways — 


And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney- 
board ; 
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 


Unless when she was sinning. 


At church, in silks and satins new, 


A cap by night — a stocking all the day ! 


With hoop of monstrous size, 
She never slumber'd in her pew — 


' 


But when she shut her eyes. 


THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 


Her love was sought, I do aver, 


John Trott was desired by two witty peers, 


By twenty beaux and more ; 


To tell them the reason why asses had ears ? 


The king himself has follow'd her — 


' An't please you,' quoth John, ' I'm not given to 


When she has walk'd before. 


letters, 
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters : 


But now her wealth and finery fled, 
Her hangers-on cut short all ; 


Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your 


The doctor's found, when she was dead — 


graces, 


Her last disorder mortal. 


As I hope to be saved ! without thinking on asses.' 




Edinburgh, 1753. 


Let us lament in sorrow sore, 




For Kent-street well may say, 


AN ELEGY 


That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more- 




She had not died to-day. 


ON THE DEATH OF A MAD BOO. 




Good people all, of every sort, 




Give ear unto my song; 





And if you find it wond'rous short, 




It cannot hold you long. 






ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK 


In Islington there was a man, 


BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 


Of whom the world might say, 




That still a godly race he ran, 


IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH. 


Whene'er he went to pray. 




A kind and gentle heart he had, 


Sure 'twas by Providence design'd, 


To comfort friends and foes ; 


Rather in pity, than in hate, 


The naked every day he clad, 
When he put on his clothes. 


That he should be, like Cupid, blind, , 
To save him from Narcissus' fate 


And in that town a dog was found, 




As many dogs there be, 


THE GIFT. 


Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 


TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-OARDEN. 1 


And curs of low degree. 


Sat, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 


This dog and man at first were friends ; 


Dear mercenary beauty, 


But when a pique began, 


What annual offering shall I make 


The dog, to gain his private ends, 


Expressive of my duty I 


Went mad, and bit the man. 






My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 


Around, from all the neighbouring streets, 


Should I at once deliver, 


The wond'ring neighbours ran, 


Say, would the angry fair one prize 


And swore the dog had lost his wits, 


The gift, who slights the giver? 


To bite so good a man. 


A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 


The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 


My rivals give— and let 'em : 


To every christian eye ; 


If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 


And while they swore the dog was mad, 


I'll give them — when I get 'em. 


They swore the man would die. 


I'll give— but not the full blown rose, 


But soon a wonder came to light, 


Or rose-bud more in fashions: 


That shew'd the rogues they lied : 


Such short-lived offerings but disclose 


The man recover'd of the bite — 


A transitory passion. 


The dog it was that died. 


I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 




Not less sincere than civil, — 




I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid I— 


AN ELEGY 


I'll give thee — to the devil.* 


ON THE OlORT OF HER SEX, MRS. MABV BX.AIZX. 





Goon people all, with one accord, 


STANZAS ON WOMAN. 


Lament for Madam Blaize, 




Who never wanted a good word — 


When lovely woman stoops to folly, 


From those who spoke her praise. 


And finds too late that men betray, 
What charm can soothe her melancholy f 


The needy seldom pass'd her door, 


What art can wash her guilt away 1 


And always found her kind; 


* These verses appear to be imitated from the French at 


She freely lent to all the poor— 


Grecourt, a witty but grossly indecent writer. 


Who left a pledge behind. 





200 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



The only art her guilt to cover, 
To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 



SONG. 

Intended to have been sun- in the Comedy of « She Stoops 
to Conquer.' 

Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? 

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. 
He, fond youth, that could carry me, 

Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 

But I will rally and combat the ruiner : 
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion 
discover. 

She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 



SONG.* 

"Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 

Lost to every gay delight, 
Myra, too sincere for feigning, 

Fears th' approaching bridal night. 

Yet why impair thy bright perfection, 
Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 

Had Myra follow'd my direction, 
She long had wanted cause of fear. 



SONG. 

The wretch condemn'd with life to part, 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang that rends the heart 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way, 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 



SONG. 

O memory! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain. 

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing, 
Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo ; 

And he who wants each other blessing, 
In thee must ever find a foe. 



ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC 

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, 

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 
And quells the raptures which from pleasure 
start. 

Oh, Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of wo, 
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 

* Closelv copied from a madrieal bv St. Voviar, 



Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, 
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung 
tear. 

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : 

Y'et they shall know thou conquerest, though 
dead! 
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 



EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. 

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, 
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery 

way ? 
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 
The transitory breath of fame below : 
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 
While converts thank their poet in the skies. 



EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* 

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,. 

Who long was a bookseller's hack : 
He led such a damnable life in this world, 

I dont think he'll wish to come back. 



A PROLOGUE, 

Written and spoken by the poet Laberius, a Roman- 
knight, whom Csesar forced upon the stage. Preserved 
by Macrobius.* 

What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, 
What in the name of dotage drives me here ? 
A time there was, when glory was my guide, 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
Unaw'd by power, and unappall'd by fear, 
With honest thrift I held my honour dear : 
But this vile hour depresses all my store, 
And all my hoard of honour is no more ; 
For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
Cassar persuades, submission must be mine ; 
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
Here then at once I welcome every shame, 
And cancel at threescore a life of fame : 
No more my titles shall my children tell, 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well : 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honour ends. 



* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dub- 
lin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a 
foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he ob- 
tained bis discharge, and became a scribbler in the news* 
papers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade. Goldsmith's- 
epiiapli is nearly a translation from a little piece of De- 
Cailly's, called La mart du Sire Etienne. 

* This translation was first printed in one of Gold- 
smith's earliest works. « The Present StJte trf' Leaning in< 
Europe,' 12mo. 1769. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



201 



PROLOGUE 

TO THE TRAGEDY OF * ZOBEIDE.' 

In these bold times, when Learning's sons ex- 
plore 
The distant climates, and the savage shore ; 
When wise astronomers to India steer, 
j And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 
Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling ; 
Our bard into the general spirit enters, 
And fits his little frigate for adventures. 
With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden, 
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading ; 
Yet ere he lands, he 's order'd me before, 
To make an observation on the shore. 
Where are we driven ? our reck'ning sure is lost ! 
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 
Lord ! what a sultry climate am I under ! 
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : 

[Gallery. 
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've 

seen 'em — [Pit. 

Here trees of stately size, and billing turtles in 

'em — [Balconies. 

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound — [Stage. 
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : 

[Tasting them. 
The inhabitants are cannibals I fear : 
I heard a hissing — there are serpents here I 
O, there the people are — best keep my distance : 
Our captain, gentle natives, craves assistance ; 
Our chip's well stored — in yonder creek we've laid 

her, 
His honour is no mercenary trader. 
This is his first adventure : lend him aid, 
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade, 
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from 

far, 
Equally tit for gallantry and war. 
What, no reply to promises so ample ? 
I'd best step back — and order up a sample. 



EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, TN TEE CHARACTER OP 
HARLEQUIN. 

Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your 

nonsense : 
I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience, 
My pride forbids it ever should be said, 
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; 
That I found humour in a pieball vest, 
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? 
[Takes off his mask. 
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth : 
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, 
The joy that dimples, and the wo that weeps. 
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood 
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued! 
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses; 
Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; 
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
And from above the dangling deities : 
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ? 
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do ! 
No — I will act, — I'll vindicate the stage : 
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 



Off ! Off ! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns t 
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. 
Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme ; 
' Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! — 

soft — 'twas but a dream.' 
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no re- 
treating, 
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
Twas thus that ^Esop's stag, a creature blame- 
less, 
Yet something vain, like one that shall be name- 
less, 
i Once on the margin of a fountain stood, 
i And cavill'd at his image in the flood. 
j ' The deuce confound,' he cries, ' these drum- 
stick shanks, 
■ They neither have my gratitude nor thanks ; 
! They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! 
i But for a head, — yes, yes, I have a head : 
j How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow I 
My horns ! — I'm told horns are the fashion now/ 

Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd to his view, 
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen 

drew; 
* Hoicks ! hark forward !' came thund'ring from 

behind, 
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind ; 
! He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze: 
I At length his silly head, so prized before, 
j Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 
j Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
And at one bound he saves himself — like me. 

[Taking a jump tlirough the stage door. 



EPILOGUE 

TO MRS. CHARLOTTE LENNOX'S COMEDY OP THE * Sl»- 
TER8.'— 1?69. 

What! five long acts — and all to make us 

wiser ! 
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 
Had she consulted me, she should have made 
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; 
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage 
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking ; 
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of 

thinking. 
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, 
What if I give a masquerade ? — I will. 
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] — I've 

got my cue ; 
The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, 

you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. 

Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses i 
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false 

spouses ! 
Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside 'em, 
Patriots, in party-colour'd suits, that ride 'em : 
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore ; 
These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen : 
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon. 
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the 

woman ; 
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
And tries to kill, ere she 's got power to cure ; 



202 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Thus, 'tis with all : their chief and constant care 
Is to seem every thing but what they are. 
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; 
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round 

parade, 
Looking, as who should say,Damme ! who's afraid? 
[Mimicking. 
Strip but his vizor off, and, sure I am 
You'll find his lionship a very lamb : 
Yon politician, famous in debate, 
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; 
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume, 
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 
And seems to every gazer all in white, 
If with a bribe his candour you attack, 
He bows, turns round, and whip — the man's in 

black 1 
Yon critic, too — but whither do I run ? 
If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too ; 
Do you spare her, and I '11 for once spare you. 



AN EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MRS. BTTLKLEY AND MISS CJ.TXET. 

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low, as beginning 
to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full be- 
fore her, and curtsies to the audience. 

Mrs. Bulk. Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's 

your business here ? 
Miss Catley. The epilogue. 
Mrs. Bulk. The epilogue ? 
Miss Catley. Yes, the epilogue, my dear. 
Mrs. Bulk. Sure you mistake, ma'am. The 

epilogue ! I bring it. 
Miss Catley. Excuse me, ma'am. The author 

bid me sing it. 

RECITATIVE. 

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid 

ring, 
Suspend your conversation while I sing. 
Mrs. Bulk. Why sure the girl 's beside herself ! 
an epilogue of singing ? 
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. 
Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
Excuse me, ma'am ; I know the etiquette. 
Miss Catley. What if we leave it to the house ? 
Mrs. Bulk. The house ! — Agreed. 
Miss Catley. Agreed. 

Mrs. Bulk. And she whose party 's largest, shall 
proceed. 
And first, I hope, you'll readily agree 
I've all the critics and the wits for me. 
They, I am sure, will answer my commands : 
Ye candid, judging few, hold up your hands. 
What ! no return ? I find too late, I fear, 
That modern judges seldom enter here. 
Miss Catley. I'm for a different set : — Old men, 
whose trade is 
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 

RECITATIVE. 

"Who mnmp their passion, and who, grimly 

smiling, 
Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling : 



Air — Cotillon. 
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 
Strephon caught thy ravish d eye ; 
Pity take on your swain so clever, 
Who without your aid must die. 
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu! 
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho ! Da Capo. 
Mrs. Bulk. Let all the old pay homage to your 
merit ; 
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train, 
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain. 
Who take a trip to Paris once a-year 
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here — 
Lend me your hands. — O fatal news to tell, 
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 
Miss Catley. Ay, take your travellers, travellers 
indeed ! 
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the 

Tweed. 
Where are the chiefs? Ah, ah! I well discern 
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 

Air.— A bonny young Lad is my Jockey. 
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, 
And be unco merry when you are but gay; 
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, 
My voice shall be ready to carol away, 

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 
Mrs. Bulk. Ye gamesters who, so eager in pur- 
suit, 
Make but of all your fortune one va toute: 
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 
' I hold the odds — Done, done, with you, with youP 
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
' My lord — your lordship misconceives the case :' 
Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 
'I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner;' 
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 

Air. — Ba llinamony. 
Miss Call. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to 
the crack, 
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack ; 
For, sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, 
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang 
back. 
For you're always polite and attentive, 
Still to amuse us inventive, 
And death is your only preventive : 

Your hands and your voices for me. 
Mrs. Bulk. Well, madam, what if, after all this 
sparring, 
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? 
Miss Catl. And that our friendship may remain 
unbroken, 
What if we leave the epilogue unspoken? 
Mrs. Bulk. Agreed. 
Miss Catl. Agreed. 

Mrs. Bulk. And now, with late repentance, 
Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence. 
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit 
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 

[Exeunt. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



203 



EPILOGUE. 

INTENDED FOR MHS. BI7r.KJ.Trj-. 

There is a place — so Ariosto sings — 
A treasury for lost and missing things; 
Lost human wits have places there assign'd 'em, 
And they who lose their senses, there may find 'em. 
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? 
The Moon, says he ; — but I affirm, the Stage— 
At least in many things, I think I see 
His lunar and our mimic world agree : 
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, 
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down ; 
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, 
And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
But in this parallel my best pretence is, 
That mortals visit both to find their senses : 
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, 
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
Hither the affected city dame advancing, 
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, 
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, 
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, 
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored. 
As ' Damme, sir !' and, ' Sir, I wear a sword !' — 
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, 
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
Here come the sons of scandal and of news, 
But find no sense — for they had none to lose 
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser; 
Has he not seen how you your favour place 
On sentimental queens and lords in lace? 
Without a star, a coronet, or garter, 
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
No high-life scenes, no sentiment ; — the creature 
Still stoops among the low to copy Nature. 
Yes, he 's far gone : — and yet some pity fix, 
The English laws forbid to punish lunating.* 

* This epilogue was given in MS. by Dt. Goldsmith to 
Dr. Percy, (afterwards Bishoo of Pro-more;) but for what 
comedy it was intended is not remembered. 




tivtler. Sir, 111 not stay in the family with Jonattivn; von must 
h ith hira, or part with me." 



Eiit dVootf^atureii J$tan. 



CHARACTERS. 



MR, HONEY WOOD 


JARVIS 


MISS tllCHUNB 


CKOAKER 


BUTLER 


OLIVIA 


LOFTY 


BAILIFF 


MRS. CROAK.BR 


SIR WM. HONEY- 


DUBARDIEU 


GARNET 


WOOD 


FOSTBOY 


LANDLADY 


L1CONTINK 







ACT I. 

Scene. — An Apartment in Young Honeywood's 

House. 
Enter Sir William Honeywood and Jarvis. 

Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies 
for this honest bluntness. Fidelity like yours is 
the best excuse for every freedom. 

Jarv. I can't help being blunt, and being 
very angry too, when I hear you talk of disin- 
heriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman 
as your nephew, my master. All the world loves 
him. 

Sir Will. Say rather that he loves all the world ; 
that is his fault. 

Jarv. 1 am sure there is no part of it more dear 
to him than you are, though he has not seen you 
since he was a child. 

Sir Will. What signifies his affection to me ; or 
how can I be proud of a place in a heart where 
every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy en- 
trance ? 

Jarv. I grant you that he is rather too good- 
natured ; that he is too much every man's man : 
that he laughs this minute with one, and cries 
the next with another; but whose instructions 
may he thank for all this ? 

Sir Will. Not mine, sure ! My letters to him 
during my employment in Italy, taught him only 
that philosophy which might prevent, not defend, 
his errors. 

Jarv. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, 
I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at 
all ; it has only served to spoil him. This 
same philosophy is a good horse in the sta- 
ble, but an arrant jade on a journey. For my 
own part, whenever I hear him mention the 
name on 't, I'm always sure he's going to play 
the fool. 

Sir Will. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis; his good- 
nature arises rather from his fears of offending 



204 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



the importunate, than his desire of making the 
deserving happy. 

Jarv. What it arises from, I don't know. But 
to be sure, every body has it that asks it. 

Sir Will. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have 
been now for some time a concealed spectator of 
his follies, and find them as boundless as his dis- 
sipation. 

Jarv. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or 
other for them all. He calls his extravagance, 
generosity; and his trusting every body, universal 
benevolence. It was but last week he went se- 
curity for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and 
that he called an act of exalted mu—mu— muni- 
ficence ; ay, that was the name he gave it. 

Sir Will. And upon that I proceed, as my last 
effort, though with very little hopes, to reclaim 
him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I 
have taken up the security. Now my intention 
is to involve him in fictitious distress, before he 
has plunged himself into real calamity: to ar- 
rest him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon 
him, and then let him see which of his friends 
will come to his relief. 

Jarv. Well, if T could but any way see him 
thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be 
music to me; yet faith, I believe it is impossible. 
I have tried to fret him myself every morning 
these three years ; but instead of being angry, he 
sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his 
hair-dresser. 

Sir Will. We must try him once more, how- 
ever, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme 
into execution ; and I don't despair of succeeding, 
I as, by your means, I can have frequent oppor- 
tunities of being about him without being known. 
What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good- 
will to others should produce so much neglect of 
himself, as to require correction ! Yet we must 
touch bis weaknesses with a delicate hand. 
There are some faults so nearly allied to excel- 
lence, that we can scarce weed out the vice with- 
out eradicating the virtue. [Exit. 

Jarv. Well, go thy ways, sir William Honey- 
wood. It is not without reason that the world 
allows thee to be the best of men. But here 
comes his hopeful nephew; the strange, good- 
natured, foolish, open-hearted — And yet, all his 
faults are such, that one loves him still the 
better for them. 

Enter Honeywood. 

Hon. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
friends this morning? 

Jarv. You have no friends. 

Hon. Well; from my acquaintance then ? 

Jarv. {Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual 
cards of compliment, that's all. This bill fiom 
your tailor; this from your mercer; and this from 
the little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has 
been at a great deal of trouble to get back the 
money you borrowed. 

Hon. That I don't know; but I'm sure we 
were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to 
lend it. 

Jarv. He hast lost all patience. 

Hon. Then he has lost a very good thing. 

Jarv. There's that ten guineas you were send- 
ing to the poor gentleman and his children in the 
Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth for a 
while at least. 



Hon. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their moutns 
in the mean time ? Must I be cruel because he 
happens to be importunate; and, to relieve his 
avarice, leave them to insupportable distress ? 

Jarv. 'Sdeath ! sir, the question now is how to 
relieve yourself— yourself. Haven't I reason to 
be out of my senses, when I see things going at 
sixes and sevens ? 

Hon. Whatever reasons you may have for being 
out of your senses, I hope you will allow that I'm 
not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. 

Jarv. You're the only man alive in your present 
situation that could do so. Every thing upon the 
waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine for- 
tune gone already, and upon the point of being 
given to your rival. 

Hon. I'm no man's rival. 

Jarv. Your uncle in Italy preparing to dis- 
inherit you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and 
nothing but pressing creditors, false friends, and 
a pack of drunken servants that your kindness 
has made unfit for any other family. 

Hon. Then they have the more occasion for 
being in mine. 

Jarv. Soh ! What will you have done with 
him that I caught stealing your plate in the 
pantry? In the fact — I caught him in the fact. 

Hon. In the fact? If so, I really think that we 
should pay him his wages, and turn him off. 

Jarv. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the 
dog: we'll hang him, if it were only to frighten 
the rest of the family. 

Hon. No, Jarvis ; it's enough that we have lost 
what he has stolen, let us not add to it the loss of 
a fellow- creature! 

Jarv. Very fine! well, here was the footman 
Just now, to complain of the butler; he says ha 
does most work, and ought to have most wages. 

Hon. That's but just; though perhaps here 
comes the butler to complain of the footman. 

Jarv. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the 
scullion to the privy-counsellor. If they have a 
bad master, they keep quarreling with him; if 
they have a good master, they keep quarreling 
with one another. 

Enter Butler, drunk. 

Butl. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with 
Jonathan ; you must part with him, or part witli 
me, that's the ex-ex-exposition of the matter, sir. 

Hon. Full and explicit enough. But what's 
his fault, good Philip? 

Butl. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I 
shall have my morals corrupted by keeping such 
company. 

Hon. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — 

Jarv. Oh, quite amusing. 

Butl. I find my wines a-going, sir; and liquors 
don't go without mouths, sir ; I hate a drunkard, 
sir. 

Hon. Well, well, Philip, I '11 hear you upon that 
another time ; so go to bed now. 

Jarv. To bed! Let him go to the devil. 

Butl. Begging your honour's pardon, and beg- 
ging ytmr pardon, master Jarvis, I'll not go to 
bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to 
do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. 
Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you. 

Hon. Whv didn't you shew him up, blockhead ? 

Butl. Shew him up, sir ! With all my heart, 
sir. Up or down, all's one to me. lExit. 



POEMS AND TLAYS 



205 I 



Jarv. Ay, we have one or other of that family 
iu this house from morning till night. He comes 
on the old affair, I suppose. The match between 
his son that's just returned from Paris, and Miss 
Richland, the young lady he is guardian to. 

Hon. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my 
friendship for the young lady, has got it into his 
head that I can persuade her to do what I please. 

Jarv. Ah! if you loved yourself but half as 
well as she loves you, we should soon see a mar- 
riage that would set all things to rights again. 

Hon. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, 
no; her intimacy with me never amounted to 
more than friendship — mere friendship. That 
she is the most lovely woman that ever warmed 
the human heart with desire, I own : but never 
let me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, 
by a connexion with one so unworthy her merits 
as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve 
her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure 
her happiness, though it destroys my own. 

Jarv. Was ever the like? I want patience — 

Hon. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain 
Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could 
succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker his 
wife; who, though both very fine in their way, 
are yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you 
know. 

Jarv. Opposite enough, heaven knows; the 
very reverse of each other; she all laugh, and 
no joke ; he always complaining, and never sor- 
rowful ; a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress 
for every hour in the four-and-twenty — 

Hon. Hush, hush, he's coming up, hell hear 
you. 

Jarv. One whose voice is a passing bell— 

Hon. Well, well; go, do. 

Jarv. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; 
a coffin and cross-bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig 
of deadly nightshade; a — (Honeywood, stopping 
his mouth, at last pushes him off.) [Exit Jarvis. 

Hon. I must own my old monitor is not entirely 
wrong. There is something in my frtend Croaker's 
conversation that quite depresses me. His very 
mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appear- 
ance has a stronger effect on my spirits than an 
undertaker's shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is such a 
satisfaction — 

Enter Croaker. 

Croak. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, 
and many of them. How is this ! you look most 
shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this 
weather does not affect your spirits. To be sure, 
if this weather continues — I say nothing; but 
God send we be all better this day three months ! 

Hon. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I 
own, not in your apprehensions. 

Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what 
weather we have in a country going to ruin like 
ours? taxes rising and trade falling. Money 
flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming 
into it. I know at this time no less than a hun- 
dred and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing- 
cross and Temple-bar. 

Hon. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or me, 
I should hope. 

Croak. May he not. Indeed, what signifies 
■whom they pervert in a country that has scarce 
any religion to lose? Pm only afraid for our wives 
and daughters. 



Hon. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, 1 
assure you. 

Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies 
whether they be perverted or no ? The women in 
my time were good for something. I have seen a 
lady dressed from top to toe in her own manufac- 
tures formerly: but now-a-days, the devil a thing 
of their own manufacture's about them, except 
their faces. 

Hon. But, however these faults may be prac- 
tised abroad, you don't find them at home, either 
with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland. 

Croak. The best of them will never be canonized 
for a saint when she's dead. By the by, my dear 
friend, I don't find this match between Miss Rich- 
land and my son much relished, either by one side 
or t'other. 

Hon. I thought otherwise. 

Croak. Ah! Mr. Honeywood, a little of your 
fine serious advice to the young lady might go 
far: I know she has a very exalted opinion of 
your understanding. 

Hon. But would not that be usurping an 
authority that more properly belongs to yourself? 

Croak. My dear friend, you know but little of 
my authority at home. People think, indeed, he- 
cause they see me come out in a morning thus, 
with a pleasant face, and to make my friends 
merry, that all's well within. But I have cares 
within that would break a heart of stone. My 
wife has so encroached upon every one of my pri- 
vileges, that I am now no more than a mere todgex 
in my own house. 

Hon. But a little spirh exer'ed on your bide 
might perhaps restore your authority. 

Croak. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I 
do rouse sometimes; hut what then? always 
haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting 
the better before his wife is tired of losing the 
victory. 

Hon. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, 
that our chief comforts often produce our greatest 
anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions 
is but an inlet to new disquietudes. 

Croak. Ah, my dear friend, the.se were the very 
words of poor Dick Doleful to me, not a week 
before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. 
•Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in 
mind of poor Dick. Ah ! there was merit neglected 
for you ; and so true a friend ! we loved each other 
for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend 
him a single farthing. 

Hon. Pray what could induce him to commit 
so rash an action at last ? 

Croak. I don't know, some people were ma- 
licious enough to say it was keeping company 
with me ; because we used to meet now and then, 
and open our hearts to each other. To be sure, I 
loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me 
talk ; poor dear Dick ! He used to say that Croaker 
rhymed to joker ; and so we used to laugh — Poor 
Dick. (Going to cry.) 

Hon. His fate affects me. 

Croak. Ah ! he grew sick of this miserable life, 
where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, 
dress and undress, get up and lie down; while 
reason, that should watch like a nurse by Our 
side, falls as fast asleep as we do. 

Hon. To say 3 truth, if we compare that part of 
life which is to come, by that which we have past, 
the prospect is hideous. 

Croak. Life, at the greatest and best, ie hut a 



206 



GOLDSMITH 8 MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



froward child, tnat must be humoured and coaxed 
a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is 
over. 

Hon. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the 
vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pur- 
uits. We wept when we came into the world, 
and every day tells us why. 

Croak. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satis- 
faction to be miserable with you. My son Leon- 
tine shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversa- 
tion. I'll just step home for him. I am willing 
to shew him so much seriousness in one scarce 
older than himself — And what if I bring my last 
letter to the Gazetteer on the increase and pro- 
gress of earthquakes? It will amuse us, I promise 
you. I there prove how the late earthquake is 
coming round to pay us another visit, from London 
tc Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, 
liom the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Pal- 
i»>ra to Constantinople, and so from Constan- 
tinople back to London again. [Exit. 

Hon. Poor Croaker! his situation deserves the 
utmost pity. I shall not regain my spirits these 
three days. Sure to live upon such terms is worse 
than death itself. And yet, when I consider my 
own situation, a broken fortune, a hopeless pas- 
sion, friends in distress; the wish, but not the 
power, to serve them (pausing and sighing.) 

Enter Butler. 
Bull. More company below, sir; Mrs. Croaker 
and Miss Richland; shall I shew them up? but 
they're shewing up themselves. [Exit. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Ricklakd. 

Miss Rich. You're always in such spirits. 

Mrs. Croak. We have just come, my dear Ho- 
neywood, from the auction. There was the old 
deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against 
herself. And then so curious in antiques ! herself, 
the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole 
collection. 

Hon. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness 
from friendship makes me unfit to share in this 
good humour ; I know you'll pardon me. 

Mrs. Croak. I vow he seems as melancholy as 
if he had taken a dose of my husband this morn- 
ing. Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I 
must. 

Miss 'Rich. You would seem to insinuate, 
madam, that I have particular reasons for being 
disposed to refuse it. 

Mrs. Croak. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 
don't be so ready to wish an explanation. 

Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honey- 
wood's long friendship and mine should be mis- 
understood. 

Eon. There's no answering for others, madam. 
But I hope you'll never find me presuming to 
offer more than the most delicate friendship may 
readily allow. 

Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a 
tribute from you, than the most passionate pro- 
fessions from others. 

Hon. My own sentiments, madam: friendship 
is a disinterested commerce between equals; love, 
an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 

Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know 
of none more disinterested, or more capable of 
friendship than Mr Foneywood. 

Mr*. Croak, And, indeed, I know nobody ^ha 
has more friends a! least among the ladies. Miss 



Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, 
praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy 
Bundle, she's his professed admirer. 

Miss Rich. Indeed! an admirer! I did not 
know, sir, you were such a favourite there. But 
is she seriously so handsome ? Is she the mighty 
thing talked of? 

Hon. The town, madam, seldom begins to 
praise a lady's beauty till she's beginning to lose 
it. {Smiling.) 

Mrs. Croak. But she's resolved never to lose 
it, it seems. For, as her natural face decays, her 
skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, 
nothing diverts me more than one of those fine, 
old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age, 
by every where exposing her person; sticking 
herself up in the front of a side-box; trailing 
through a minuet at Almack's ; and then, in the 
public gardens, looking for all the world like one 
of the painted ruins of the place. 

Hon. Every age has its admirers, ladies. While 
you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer cli- 
mates of youth, there ought to be some to carry 
on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes be- 
yond fifty. 

Miss Rich. But, then, the mortifications they 
must suffer, before they can be fitted out for 
traffic. I have seen one of them fret a whole 
morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault 
was her face. 

Hon. And yet, I'll engage, has carried that face 
at last to a very good market. This good-natured 
town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to 
fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore. 

Mrs. Croak. Well, you're a dear good-natured 
creature. But you know you re engaged with 
us this morning upon a strolling party. I want 
to show Olivia the town, and the things ; I 
believe I shall have business for you the whole 
day. 

Hon. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- 
ment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to 
put off. 

Mrs. Croak. What! with my husband? then 
I'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest 
you must. You know I never laugh so much as 
with you. 

Hon. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear you 
have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find 
jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you. We'll 
wait for the chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. 

Enter Leontine and Olivia. 

Leon. There they go, thoughtless and happy. 
My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you 
capable of sharing in their amusements, and as 
cheerful as they are ? 

Oliv. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheer-, 
ful, when I have so many terrors to oppress me ? 
The fear of being detected by this family, and the 
apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must 
be detected — 

Leon. The world! my love, what can it say? 
At worst it can only say that, being compelled by 
a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you dis- 
liked, you formed a resolution of flying with the 
man of your choice ; that you confided in his ho- 
nour, and took refuge in my father's house ; the 
only one where yours could remain without cen- 
sure. 

Oliv. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience 
and my indiscretion ; your being sent to France 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



207 



I to bring home a sister; and, instead of a sister, 
bringing home — 

Leon. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One 
that I am convinced Will be equally dear to the 
rest of the family, when she comes to be known. 

Oliv. And that, I fear, will shortly he. 

Leon. Impossible, till we ourselves think pro- 
per to make the discovery. My sister, you know, 
has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was 
a child, and you find every creature in the family 
takes you for her. 

Oliv. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt 
write ? 

Leon. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my 
sister's letters are directed to me. 

Oliv. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, 
for whom you know the old gentleman intends 
you, create a suspicion ? 

Leon. There, there's my master-stroke. I have 
resolved not to refuse her; nay, an hour hence I 
have consented to go with my father, to make 
her an offer of my heart and fortune. 

Oliv. Your heart and fortune ! 

Leon. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can 
Olivia think so meanly of rny honour, or my love, 
as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness 
from any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the 
force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my 
passion, leave any room to suspect me. I only 
offer Miss Richland a heart, I am convinced she 
•will refuse; as I am confident, thai without 
knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. 
Honeywood. 

Oliv. Mr. Honeywood ! You'll excuse my ap- 
prehensions ; but when your merits come to be 
put in the balance — 

Leon. You view them with too much partiality. 
However, by making this offer, I show a seeming 
compliance with my father's command; and 
perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his con- 
sent to choose for myself. 

Oliv. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, 
I own, I shall envy her even your pretended ad- 
dresses. I consider every look, every expression 
of your esteem as due only to me. This is folly 
perhaps ; I allow it : but it is natural to suppose 
that merit which has made an impression on 
one's own heart, may be powerful over that of 
another. 

Leon. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us 
make imaginary evils, when you khow we have 
so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you 
know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my 
father refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip 
to Scotland ; and — 

Enter Croaker. 

Croak. Where have you been, boy? I have 
been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here, 
has been saying such comfortable things. Ah ! 
he's an example indeed. Where is he ? I left him 
here. 

Leon. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear 
him too in the next room : he's preparing to go 
out with the ladies. 

Croak. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or 
my ears ? I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and 
stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was 
there ever such a transformation ! (a laugh behind 
the scenes, Croaker mimics it.) Ha! ha! ha! 
there it goes ; a plague take their balderdash 1 
yet I could expect nothing less, when my pre- 



cious wife was of the party. On my conscience, 
I believe she could spread a horse-laugh through 
the pews of a tabernacle. 

Leon. Since you find so many objections to a 
wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recom- 
mending one to me ? 

Croak. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, 
that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of 
the family ; one may find comfort in the money, 
whatever one does in the wife. 

Leon. But, sir, though in obedience to your de- 
sire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible 
she has no inclination to me. 

Croak. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. 
A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune con- 
sists in a claim upon government, which my good 
friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the treasury will 
allow. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her 
father's will, in case she refuses to marry you. So, 
if she rejects you, we seize half her fortune; if 
she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine 
girl into the bargain. 

Leon. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason — 

Croak. Come, then, produce your reasons. I 
tell you I'm fixed, determined, so now produce 
your reasons. When I'm determined, I always 
listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. 

Leon. You have alleged that a mutual choice 
was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. 

Croak. Well, and you have both of you a mu- 
tual choice. She has her choice — to marry you, 
or lose half her fortune ; and you have your 
choice — to marry her, or pack out of doors with- 
out any fortune at all. 

Leon. An only son, sir. might expect more in- 
dulgence. 

Croak. An only father, sir, might expect more 
obedience ; besides, has not your sister here, that 
never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as 
you ? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would 
take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he 
shan't ; for you shall have your share. 

Oliv. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced that 
I can never be happy in any addition to my for- 
tune, which is taken from his. 

Croak. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no 
more ; but come with me, and we shall see some- 
thing that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I 
promise you ; old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, 
lying in state : I'm told he makes a very hand- 
some corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. 
He was an intimate friend of mine, and these are 
friendly things we ought to do for each other. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene. — Croaker's House. 
Miss Richland, Garnet. 

Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister? Olivia not 
Leontine's sister? You amaze me ! 

Gar. No more his sister than I am ; I had it 
all from his own servant ; I can get any thing 
from that quarter. 

Miss Rich. But how? tell me again, Garnet. 

Gar. Why, madam, as I told you before, in- 
stead of going to Lyons, to bring home his sister, 
who has been there with her aunt these ten years, 
he never went further than Paris ; there he saw 



208 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



and fell in love with this young lady, by-the-by, 
of a prodigious family. 

Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guar- 
dian, as his daughter? 

. Gar. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he 
don't consent to their marriage, they talk of try- 
ing what a Scotch parson can do. 

Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived 
me. — And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! — 
Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my 
secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this 
from me ? 

Gar. And, upon my word, madam, I don't 
much blame her; she was loath to trust one with 
her secrets, that was so very bad at keeping her 
own. 

Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the 
young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me 
serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be 
here presently, to open the affair in form. You 
know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse 
him. 

Gar. Yet, what can you do? For, being, as 
you are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam — 

Miss Rich. How ! idiot ; what do you mean ? 
In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke 
me! 

Gar. That is, madam, in friendship with him ; 
I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope 
to be married; nothing more. 

Miss Rich. Well, no more of this. As to my 
guardian, and his son, they shall find me pre- 
pared to receive them; I'm resolved to accept 
their proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify 
them by compliance, and so throw the refusal at 
last upon them. 

Gar. Delicious! and that will secure your 
whole fortune to yourself. Well, who could have 
thought so innocent a face could cover so much 
'cuteness ! 

Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my pru- 
dence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they 
have taught me against themselves. 

Gar. Then you're likely not long to want em- 
ployment, for here they come, and in close con- 
ference. 

Enter Croaker and Leontine. 

Leon. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate 
upon the point of putting to the lady so important 
a question. 

Croak. Lord! good sir, moderate your fears; 
you're so plaguy shy that one would think you 
had changed sexes. I tell you we must have the 
half or the whole. Come, let me see with what 
spirit you begin: well, why don't you? Eh! 
What ? Well then — I must, it seems — Miss Rich- 
land, my dear, I believe you guess at our busi- 
ness ; an affair which my son here comes to open, 
that nearly concerns your happiness. 

Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be 
pleased with any thing that comes recommended 
by you. 

Croak. How, boy, could you desire a finer 
opening ? Why don't you begin, I say ? [To Leon. 

Leon. 'Tis true, madam, my father, madam, 
has some intentions— hem — of explaining an 
affair — which himself — can best explain, madam. 

Croak. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from 
my son : it's all a request of his own, madam. 
And I will permit him to make the best of it. 

Leon. The whole affair is only this, madam : 



my father has a proposal to make, which he in- 
sists none but himself shalf deliver. 

Croak. My mind misgives me, the fellow will 
never be brought on. {Aside.) In short, madam, 
you see before you one that loves you; one whose 
whole happiness is all in you. 

Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your re- 
gard, sir ; and I hope you can have none of my 
duty. 

Croak. That's not the thing, my little sweeting ; 
my love ! No, no, another guess lover than I ; 
there he stands, madam, his very looks declare 
the force of his passion — Call up a look,. you dog! 
(Aside) — But then, had you seen him, as I have, 
weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, 
sometimes melancholy, and sometimes absent — 

Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such 
a declaration would have come most properly 
from himself. 

Croak. Himself! madam, he would die before 
he could make such a confession ; and if he had not 
a channel for his passion through me, it would 
ere now have drowned his understanding. 

Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attrac- 
tions in modest diffidence above the force of 
words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence 
of sincerity. 

Croak. Madam, he has forgot to speak any 
other language ; silence is become his mother 
tongue. 

■Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it 
speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet I 
shall be thought too forward in making such a 
confession; shan't I, Mr. Leontine? 

Leon. Confusion! my reserve will undo me. 
But if modesty attracts her, impudence may dis- 
gust her. I'll try. (Aside.) Don't imagine from 
my silence, madam, that I want a due sense of 
the honour and happiness intended me. My 
father, madam, tells me, your humble servant is 
not totally indifferent to you. He admires- you : 
I adore you ; and when we come together, upon 
my soul I believe we shall be the happiest couple 
in all St. James's. 

Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself you thought 
as you speak, sir — 

Leon. Doubt my sincerity, madam? By your 
dear self I swear. Ask the brave, if they desire 
glory? ask cowards, if they covet safety — 

Croak. Well, well, no more questions about it. 

Leon. Ask the sick, if they long for health? ask 
misers, if they love money? ask — 

Croak. Ask a fool, if he can talk nonsense? 
What's come over the boy? What signifies asking, 
when there's not a soul to give you an answer? 
If you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's 
consent to make you happy. 

Miss Rich. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon 
ardour almost compels me — forces me, to comply. . 
And yet, I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained 
with too much ease; won't you, Mr. Leontine? 

Leon. Confusion! (Aside.) Oh, by no means, 
madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you 
talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid 
so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. 
No, madam, I will still be generous, and leave 
you at liberty to refuse. 

Croak. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at 
liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. 
Silence gives consent. 

Leon. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, 
sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. 






POEMS AND PLAYS. 



209 



Croak. But I say there s no cruelty. Don't you 
know, blockhead, that girls have always a round- 
about way of saying yes before company ? So get 
you both gone together into the next room, and 
hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. 
Get you gone, I say, I'll not hear a word. 
Leon. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — 
Croak. Get off, ycu puppy, or I'll beg leave to 
insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp! 
But I don't wonder, the boy takes entirely after 
his mother. [Exeunt Miss Rich, and Leon. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croak. Mr. Croaker, I bring you some- 
thing, my dear, that I believe will make you 
smile. 

Croak. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 

Mrs. Croak. A letter \ and, as I knew the hand, 
I ventured to open it. 

Croak. And how can you expect your breaking 
open my letters should give me pleasure? 

Mrs. Croak. Pooh ! it's from your sister at Lyons, 
and contains good news: read it. 

Croak. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That 
sister of mine has some good qualities, but I could 
never teach her to fold a letter. 

Mrs. Croak. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it 
contains. 

Croak. (Reading.) 'Dear Nick, — An English 
gentleman, of large fortune, has for some time 
made private, though honourable proposals to 
your daughter Olivia. They love each other ten- 
derly, and I find she has consented, without, letting 
any of the family know, to crown his addresses. 
As such good offers don't come every day, your 
own good sense, his large fortune, and family con- 
siderations, will induce you to forgive her. — Yours 
ever, Rachel Croaker.' 

My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a 
man of large fortune ! This is good news, indeed. 
My heart never fortold me of this. And yet, how 
slily the little baggage has carried it since she 
came home. Not a word on't to the old ones for 
the world. Yet, I thought I saw something she 
wanted to conceal. 

Mrs. Croak. Well, if they have concealed their 
amour, they shan't conceal their wedding; that 
shall be public, I'm resolved. 

Croak. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the 
most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never 
get this woman to think of the more serious part 
of the nuptial engagement. 

Mrs. Croak. What ! would you have me think 
of their funeral? But come, tell me, my dear, 
don't you owe more to me than you care to con- 
fess ? Would you have ever been known to Mr. 
Lofty, who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim 
at the treasury, but for me? Who was it first 
made him an acquaintance at lady Shabbaroon's 
rout? Who got him to promise us his interest r 
Is he not a back-stair favourite, one that can do 
■what he pleases with those that do what they 
please? Is he not an acquaintance that all your 
groaning and lamentations could never have 
got us ? 

Croak. He is a man of importance, I grant you. 
And yet, what amazes me is, that while he is 
giving away places to all the world, he can't get 
one for himself. 

Mrs. Croali. That perhaps may be owing to hia 
nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 



Enter French Servant. 

Serv. An express from Monsieur Lofty. He 
vil be vait upon your honours instammant. He 
be only giving four five instruction, read two tree 
memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He vil 
be vid you in one tree minutes. 

Mrs. Croak. You see now, my dear. What an 
extensive department ! Well, friend, let your 
master know that we are extremely honoured by 
this honour. Was there any thing ever in a 
higher style of breeding? All messages among 
the great are now done by express. 

[Exit French Servant. 

Croak. To be sure, no man does little things 
with more solemnity, or claims more respect than 
he. 'But he's in the right on't. In our bad world, 
respect is given where respect is claimed. 

Mrs. Croak. Never mind the world, my dear; 
you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. 
Let us now think of receiving him with proper 
respect; (a loud knocking at the door,) and there he 
is, by the thundering rap. 

Croak, Ay, verily, there he is! as close upon 
the heels of his own express, as an indorsement 
upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to 
receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia, 
for intending to steal a marriage without mine or 
her aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or 
$he too may begin to despise my authority. [Exit. 

Enter Lofty speaking to his Servant. 
Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or 
that teasing creature, the marquis, should call, 
I'm not at home. Damme, I'll be pack-horse to 
none of them — My dear madam, I have just 
■snatched a moment — And if the expresses to his 
grace be ready, let them be sent off; they're of 
importance. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croak. Sir, this honour ■ 

Lofty. And, Dubardieu! if the person calls 
about the commission, let him know that it is 
.made out. As for lord Cumhercourt's stale re- 
quest, it can keep cold : you understand me. 
— Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croak. Sir ! this honour 

Lofty. Ana, Dubardieu! if the man comes from 
the Cornish borough, you must do him; you must 
do him, I say. — Madam, I ask ten thousand 
pardons. — And if the Russian ambassador calls; 
but he will scarce call to-day, I believe.— And 
now, madam, I have just got time to express my 
happiness, in having the honour of being per- 
mitted to profess myself your most obedient 
humble servant. 

Mrs. Croak. Sir, the happiness and honour are 
all mine; and yet, I'm only robbing the public 
while I detain you. 

Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair 
are to be attended. Ah, could all rny hours be so 
charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity 
us poor creatures in affairs? Thus it is eternally; 
solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, 
and courted every where. I know you pity me. 
Yes, I see you do. 

Mrs. Croak. Excuse me; sir, ' Toils of empires 
pleasures are,' as Waller says. 

Lofty. Waller — Waller ; is he of the house? 

Mrs. Croak. The modern poet of that name, sir. 

Lofty. Oh, a modern! We men of business 
despise the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we 
have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty 
N 



210 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



thing enough for our wives and daughters ; but 
not for us. Why now, here I stand that know 
nothing of books. I say, madam, I know nothing 
of books ; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage 
fishery, a stamp-act, or a jag-hire, I can talk my 
two hours without feeling the want of them. 

Mrs. Croak. The world is no stranger to Mr. 
Lofty's eminence in every capacity. 

Lofty. I vow to gad, madam, you make me 
blush. I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the 
world; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, 
indeed, one or two of the present ministers are 
pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I 
know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their 
little dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder 
what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, 
not men, have always been my mark; and I vow, 
by all that's honourable, my resentment has never 
done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm 
— that is, as mere men. 

Mrs. Croak. What importance, and yet what 
modesty ! 

Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, 
there, I own, I'm accessible to praise : modesty is 
my foible; it was so the duke of Brentford used 
to say of me. ■ I love Jack Lofty,' he used to say ; 
'no man has a finer knowledge of things; quite a 
man of information; and when he speaks upon 
his legs, by the Lord he's prodigious, he scouts 
them; and yet all men have their faults; too 
inueh modesty is his,' says his grace. 

Mrs. Croak. And yet, I dare say, you don't 
want assurance when you come to solicit for your 
friends. 

Lofty. 0, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! 
I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case 
to a certain personage ; we must name no names. 
When I ask, I'm not to be put ofF, madam. No, 
no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl, 
sir; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. 
Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr. 
Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business 
must be done, sir. That's my way, madam. 

Mrs. Croak. Bless me ! you said, all this to the 
secretary of state, did you? 

Lofty. I did not say the secretary, did I ? Well, 
curse it, since you have found me out, I will not 
deny it. It was to the secretary. 

Mrs. Croak. This was going to the fauntain 
head at once, not applying to the understrappers, 
as Mr. Honey wood would have had us. 

Lofty. Honeywoodl he! he! He was, indeed, a 
fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has 
just happened to him ? 

Mrs. Croak. Poor dear manl no accident, I 
hope? 

Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His credi- 
tors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in 
his own house. 

Mrs. Croak. A prisoner in his own house! 
How t At this very moment? I'm quite unhappy 
for him. 

Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, 
was immensely good-natured. But then, I could 
never find that he had any thing in him. 

Mrs. Croak, His manner, to be sure, was ex- 
cessively harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a 
little dull. For my part, I always concealed my 
opinion. 

Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam; the man 
was dull — dull as the last new conn iv ! a poor, 
impracticable creature! i tried once n ' mce to 



know if he was fit for business; but he had scarce 
talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. 

Mrs. Croak. How differently does Miss Richland 
think of him ! For, I believe, with all his faults, 
she loves him. 

Lofty. Loves him! does she? you should cure 
her of that by all means. Let me see ; what if she 
were sent to him this instant, in his present dole- 
ful situation? My life for it, that works her cure. 
Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose 
we join her in the next room? Miss Richland is a 
fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be 
thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have 
a regard for Miss Richland ; and, rather than she 
should be thrown away, I should think it no in- 
dignity to marry her myself. [Exeunt. 

Enter Olivia atid Leontine. 

Leon. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did 
every thing in my power to deserve it. Her 
indelicacy surprises me. 

Oliv. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indeli- 
cate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear 
I shall be the most guilty thing alive. 

Leon. But you mistake, my dear. The same 
attention I used to advance my merit with you, 
1 practised to lessen it with her. What more 
could I do? 

Oliv. Let us now rather consider what is to be 
done. We have both dissembled too long — I have 
always been ashamed— I am now quite weary of 
it. Sure I could never have undergone so much. 
for any other but you. 

L°on. And you shall find my gratitude equal tc 
your kindest compliance. Though our friends 
should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw 
upon content for the deficiencies of fortune. 

Oliv. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
humble happiness when it is now in our power? 
I may be the favourite of your father, it is true; 
but can it ever be thought, that his present kind- 
ness to a supposed child, will continue to a known 
deceiver. 

Leon. I have many reasons to believe it will. 
As his attachments are but few, they are lasting. 
His own marriage was a private one, as ours may 
be. Besides, 1 have sounded him already at a 
distance, and find all his answers exactly to our 
wish. Nay, by an expression or two that dropped 
from him, I am induced to think he knows of this 
affair. 

Oliv. Indeed! but that would be a happiness 
too great to be expected. 

Leon. However it be, I 'm certain you have 
power over him ; and am persuaded, if you in- 
formed him of our situation, that he would be dis- 
posed to pardon it. 

Oliv. You had equal expectations, Leontine, 
from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which 
you find has succeeded most wretchedly. 

Leon. And that's the best reason for trying 
another. 

Oliv. If it must be so, I submit. 

Leon. As we could wish, he comes this way 
Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. Ill just 
retire within hearing, to come in at a proper 
time, either to share your danger, or confirm your 
victory. [Exit, 



POEMS AND PL, AYS. 



211 



Enter Croaker. 

Croak. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not 
too easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up 
the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only 
to impress her with an idea of my authority. 

Oliv. How I tremble to approach him ! Might I 
presume, sir — if I interrupt you — 

Croak. No, child, where I have an affection, it 
is not a little thing that can interrupt me. Affec- 
tion gets over little things. 

Oliv. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how 
ill I deserve this partiality; yet, heaven knows, 
there is nothing I would not do to gain it. 

Croak. And you have but too well succeeded, 
you little hussy, you. With those endearing 
ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be 
brought to forgive any thing, unless it were a very 
great offence indeed. 

Oliv. But mine is such an offence — When you 
know my guilt — Yes, you s»hall know it, though I 
feel the greatest pain in the confession. 

Croak. Why, then, if it i>o so very great a pain, 
you may spare yourself the trouble ; for I kno^ 
every syllable of the matter before you begin. 
Oliv. Indeed! Then I'm undone. 
Croak. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, 
without letting me know it, did you? But I'm not 
worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's 
to be a marriage in my own family. No, I'm to 
nave no hand in the disposal of my own children. 
No, I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of 
family lumber ; a piece of cracked china to be 
stuck up in a corner. 

Oliv. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your 
authority could induce us to conceal it from you. 
Croak. No, no, my consequence is no more; 
I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, 
just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till there 
comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her. 

[Aside. 

Oliv. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and 

despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to 

ask it. But your severity shall never abate my 

affection, as my punishment is but justice. 

Croak. And yet you should not despair neither, 
Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 

Oliv. And do you permit me to hope, sir ? Can 
I ever expect to be forgiven? But hope has too 
long deceived me. 

Croak. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you 
now, for I forgive you this very moment. I for- 
give you all; and now you are indeed my daugh- 
ter. 

Oliv. O transport! this kindness overpowers 
me. 

Croak. I was always against severity to our 
children. We have been young and giddy our- 
selves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be 
old before their time. 

Oliv. Wha.t generosity! but can you forget the 

many falsehoods, the dissimulation 

Croak. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin 
you; but where's the girl that won't dissemble 
for a husband? My wife and I had never been 
married, if we had not dissembled a little before- 
hand. 

Oliv. It shall be my future care never to put 
such generosity to a second trial. And as for the 
partner of my offence and folly, from his native 



honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, 
can answer for him that — 



Enter Leontine. 

Leon. Permit him thus to answer for himself 
{kneeling.) Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude 
for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even 
exceeds all your former tenderness. I now can 
boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life \ 
he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling 
blessing. 

Croak. And, good sir, who sent for you, with | 
that fine tragedy face-, and flourishing manner ? I 
don't know what we have to 'do with your grati- 
tude upon this occasion. 

Leon. How, sir ! Is it possible to be silent, when | 
so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the plea- i 
sure of being grateful ? of adding my thanks to | 
my Olivia's ? of sharing in the transports that you 
have thus occasioned? 

Croak. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough with- 
out your coming in to make up the party. I 
don't know what's the matter with the boy all 
this day; he has got into such a rhodomontade 
manner all this morning! 

Leon. But, sir, I that have so large apart in the 
benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy? is the 
being admitted to your favour so slight an obliga- 
tion? is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so 
small a blessing? 

Croak. Marrying Olivia! marrying Olivia ! mar- 
rying his own sister ! sure the boy is out of his 
senses. His own sister! 
Leon. My sister ! 
Oliv. Sister! How have I been mistaken. 

[Aside. 
Leon. Some cursed mistake in all this I find. 

[Aside. 
Croak. What does the booby mean? or lias he 
any meaning? Eh, what do you mean, you block- 
head, you ? 

Leon. Mean, sir— why, sir— only when' my sis- 
ter is to be married, that I have the pleasure of 
marrying her, sir, that is, of giving her away, sir 
— I have made a point of it. 

Croak. O, is that all? Give her away. You 
have made a point of it. Then you had as good 
make a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm 
going to prepare the writings between you and 
Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is 
here about nothing! Why, what's the matter 
now? I thought I had made you at least as happy 
as you could wish. 

Oliv. O yes, sir, very happy. 

Croak. Do you foresee any thing, child? You 

look as if you did. I think if any thing was to be 

foreseen, I have as sharp a look out as another ; 

and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit. 

Leontine, Olivia. 

Oliv. Whatman it mean? 

Leon. He knows something, and yet for my 
life I can't tell what. 

Oliv. It can't be the connexion between us, 
I'm pretty certain. 

Leon. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved 
to put it out of fortune's power to repeat the 
mornrication. Ill haste and prepare for our 
jonrney to Scotland this very evening. My friend 



212 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS YfORKS. 



Honeywood has promised me his advice and as- 
sistance. I'll go to him, and repose our distresses 
on his friendly bosom ; and I know so much of his 
honest heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasi- 
nesses he will at least share them. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene. — Young Honeywood 's House. 
Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. 

Bail. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men 
as you in my time : no disparagement to you 
neither. Men that would go forty guineas on a 
game of cribbage. I challenge the town to show 
a man in more genteeler practice than myself. 

Hon. Without all question, Mr. — . I forget 
your name, sir. 

Bail. How can you forget what you never 
knew ? he ! he ! he ! 

Hon. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 
^ Bail. Yes, you may. 

Hon. Then pray, sir, what is your name? 
5 Bail. That I didn't promise to tell you. He! 
he ! he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among 
us that practise the law. 

Hon. You may have reason for keeping it a 
secret, perhaps. 

Bail. The law does nothing without reason. 
1 'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If 
you can shew cause, as why, upon a special capus, 
that I should prove my name — But, come, Timo- 
thy Twitch is my name. And, now you know my 
name, what have you to say to that ? 

Hon. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, 
but that I have a favour to ask, that's all. 

Bail. Ay, favours are more easily asked than 
granted, as we say among us that practise the law. 
I have taken an oath against granting favours. 
Would you have me perjure myself? 

Hon. But my request will come recommended 
in so strong a manner, as I believe you'll have no 
scruple {pulling out his purse.) The thing is only 
this : I believe I shall be able to discharge this 
trifle in two or three days at farthest; but as I 
would not have the affair known for the world, I 
have thoughts of keeping you and your good friend 
here, about me, till the debt is discharged;- for 
which I shall be properly grateful. 

Bail. Oh ! that's another maxim, and altogether 
within my oath. For certain, if an honest man 
is to get any thing by a thing, there 's no reason 
why all things should not be done in civility. 

Hon. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. 

(Gives him money.) 

Bail. Oh! your honour; I hope your honour 
takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing 
but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can 
say I ever gave a gentleman, that was a gentle- 
man, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a 
gentleman, I have taken money not to see him for 
ten weeks together. 

Hon. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 

Bail. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to 
see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't 
know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. 
If all that I have lost by my heart were put toge- 
ther, it would make a — but no matter for that. 

Hon. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The 



ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of 
the conscious happiness of having acted with hu- 
manity ourselves. 

Bail. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better 
than gold. I love humanity. People may say, 
that we, in our way, have no humanity ; but I'll 
shew you my humanity this moment. There's 
my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and 
four children, a guinea or two would be more to 
him than twice as much to another. Now, as I 
can't shew him any humanity myself, I must beg 
leave you'll do it for me. 

Hon. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most 
powerful recommendation. (Giving money to the 

_, .. _. , [follower,) 

Bail. Sir, you re a gentleman. I see you know 
what to do with your money. But, to business : 
we are to be with you here as your friends, 1 sup- 
pose. But set in case company comes.— Little 
Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face— a very 
good face ; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say 
among us that practise the law. Not well in 
clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. 

Hon. Well, that shall be remedied without 
delay. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 

Hon. How unlucky! Detain her a moment. 
We must improve my good friend little Mr. Fla- 
nigan 's appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan 
have a suit of my clothes— quick— the brown and 
silver — Do you hear ? 

Serv. That your honour gave away to the beg- 
ging gentleman that makes verses, because it was 
as good as new. 

Hon. The white and gold then. 

Serv. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, 
because it was good for nothing. 

Hon. Well, the first that comes to hand then. 
The blue and gold then. I believe Mr. Flanigan' 
will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 

Bail. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look 
well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that 
bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in 
love with him. There's not a prettier scout in 
the four counties after a shy-cock than he : scents 
like a hound; sticks like a weazle. He was 
master of the ceremonies to the black queen of 
Morocco, when I took him to follow me. (Re- 
enter Flanigan.) Heh! ecod, I think he looks so- 
well, that I don't care if I have a suit from the 
same place for myself. 

Hon. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. 
Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your 
friend directions not to speak. As for your- 
self, I know you will say nothing without being 
directed. 

Bail. Never you fear me ; I '11 shew the lady 
that I have something to say for myself as well as 
another. One man has one way of talking, and 
another man has another, that's all the differ- 
ence between them. 



Enter Miss Richland and Gae.net. 

Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this 
visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for 
choosing my little library. 

Hon. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary; as it 
was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



213 



here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch 
and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without 
ceremony. 

Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be? 
I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. 

(Aside.) 

Bail. {After a pause.) Pretty weather; very 
pretty weather for the time of the year, ma- 
dam. 

Fol. Very good circuit weather in the country. 

Hon. You officers are generally favourites 
among the ladies. My friends, madam, have 
been upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. 
The fair, should, in some measure, recompense 
the toils of the brave ? 

Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve 
every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine 
service, I presume, sir ? 

Hon. Why, madam, they do— occasionally serve 
in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! 

Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own, it has 
often surprised me, that while we have had so 
many instances of bravery there, we have had so 
few of wit at home to praise it. 
• Hon. I grant, madam, that our poets have not 
written as our sailors have fought ; but they 
have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst 
could do no more. 

Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a 
fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 

Hon. We should not be so severe against dull 
writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the dull- 
est writer exceeds the most rigid French critic 
who presumes to despise him. 

Fol. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all 
that belongs to them ? 

Miss Rich. Sir! 

Hon. Ha! ha! ha! honest Mr. Flanigan. A 
true English officer, madam ; he's not contented 
with beating the French, but he will scold them 
too. 

Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not 
convince me but that severity in criticism is ne- 
cessary. It was our first adopting the severity of 
French taste, that has brought them in turn to 
taste us. 

Bail. Taste us! By the Lord, madam, they 
devour us. Give Mounseers but a taste, and I'll 
be damn'd but they come in for a bellyful. 

Miss Rick. Very extraordinary this ! 

Fol. But very true. What makes the bread 
rising? the parle vous that devour us. What 
makes the mutton fivepence a pound? the parle 
vous that eat it up. What makes the beer three- 
pence-halfpenny a pot? — 

Hon. Ah! the vulgar rogues; all will be out 
(Aside.) Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my 
word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a 
parallel, madam, between the mental taste and 
that of our senses. We are injured as much by 
French severity in the one, as by French rapacity 
in the other. That's their meaning. 

Miss Rick. Though I don't see the force of the 
parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes 
pardon books, as we do our friends, that have 
now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend 
them. 

Bail. That's all my eye. The king only can 
pardon, as the law says : for, set in case — 

Hon. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see the 
whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, 
cur presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating 



a power that belongs to another. If all have 
power to condemn, what writer can be free? 

Bail. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus 
can set him free at any time : for, set in case — 

Hon. I'm obliged to you» sir, for the hint. If, 
madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so 
careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to 
be Equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 

Fol. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed you 
know — 

Hon. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever you 
could not improve the last observation. For my 
own-part, I think it conclusive. 

Bail. As for the matter of that, mayhap — 

Hon. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance 
to be positive. For, where is the necessity of 
censuring works -without genius, which must 
shortly sink of themselves ? what is it, but aiming 
an unnecessary blow against a victim already 
under the hands of justice? 

Bail. Justice ! O, by the elevens, if you talk 
about justice, I think I am at home there; for, in 
a course of law — 

Hon. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
you'd be at perfectly; and I believe the lady 
must be sensible of the art with which it is intro- 
duced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, 
madam, of his course of law ? 

Miss Rich. I pretest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
only that you answer one gentleman before he has 
finished, and the other before he has well begun. 

Bail. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I 
will make the matter out. This here question is 
about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the 
like of they. Now, to explain the thing — 

Hon. O! curse your explanations! [Aside. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 
with you upon earnest business. 

Hon. That's lucky. {Aside.) Dear madam, 
you'll excuse me and my good friends, here for a 
few minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse 
you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no 
ceremony with such friends. After you, sir. 
Excuse me. Well, if I must. But I know your 
natural politeness. 

Rail. Before and behind, you know. 
" Fol. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and be- 
hind. 

[Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 

Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet?- 

Gar. Mean, madam ! why, what should it mean, 
but what Mr. Lofty has sent you here to see? 
These people he calls officers, are officers sure 
enough; sheriff's officers — bailiffs, madam. 

Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, 
yet I own there's something very ridiculous in 
them, and a just punishment for his dissimu- 
lation. 

Gar. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, 
that the lawyer you just employed to pay his 
debts, and set him free, has not done it by this 
time. He ought at least to have been here before 
now. But lawyers are always more ready to get 
a man into troubles than out of them. 

Enter Sir William. 
Sir Will. For Miss Pdchland to undertake set- 
ting him free, I own was quite unexpected. It 
has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. 



214 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Yet it gives me pleasure to find that among a 
number of worthless "friendships, he has made 
one acquisition of real value ; for there must be 
some softer passion on her side that prompts this 
generosity. Ha! here before me ; I'll endeavour 
to sound her affections. Madam, as I am the 
person that have had some demands upon the 
gentleman of this house, I hope you'll excuse 
me, if before I enlarged him, I wanted to see 
yourself. 

Miss Rich. The precaution was very unneces- 
sary, sir. I suppose your Wants were only such 
as rny agent had power to satisfy. 

Sir Will. Partly, madam. But I was also will- 
ing you should be fully apprized of the character 
of the gentleman you intended to serve. 

Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill 
grace from you. To censure it, after what you 
have done, would look like malice ; and to speak 
favourably of a character you have oppressed, 
would be impeaching your own. And sure, his 
tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, 
may atone for many faults. 

Sir Will. That friendship, madam, which is 
exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally 
useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, dis- 
appears when diffused too widely. They, who 
pretend most to this universal benevolence, are 
either deceivers, or dupes. Men who desire to 
cover their private ill-nature, by a pretended 
regard for all; or, men who, reasoning themselves 
into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit of 
splendid, than of useful virtues. 

Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, 
who has probably been a gainer by the folly at 
others, so severe in his censure of it. 

Sir Will. Whatever I may have gained by folly, 
madam, you see I am willing to prevent your 
losing by it. 

Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unne- 
cessary. I always suspect those services which 
are denied where they are wanted, and offered, 
perhaps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my direc- 
tions have been given, and I insist upon their 
'being complied with. 

Sir Will. Thcu amiable woman! I can no 
longer contain the expressions of my gratitude; 
my pleasure. You sde before you one who has 
been equally careful of his interest ; one, who has ' 
for some time been a concealed spectator of his 
follies, and only punished in hopes to reclaim 
them — his uncle. 

Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood! You 
amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion? 
I fear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward 
j in my services. I confess I — 

Sir Will. Don't make any apologies, madam. 

[ I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. 

J And yet I have been trying my interest of late to 

serve you. Having learned, madam, that you 

j had some demands upon government, I have, 

though unasked, been your solicitor there. 

Miss Rich. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
intentions. But my guardian has employed 
another gentleman, who assures him of suc- 
cess. 
Sir TVill. Who, the important little man that 
j visits here? Trust me, madam, he's quite con- 
I temptible among men in power, and utterly un- 
! able to serve you. Mr. Lofty's promises are much 
i better known to people of fashion than his person, 
I 1 assure you. 



Miss Rich. How have we been deceived! As 
sure as can be, here he comes. 

Sir Will. Does he? Remember I'm to con- 
tinue unknown. My return to England has not 
as yet been made public. With what impudence 
he enters. 

Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Let the chariot— let my chariot drive 
off; I'll visit to his grace's in a chair. Miss 
Richland here before me ? Punctual, as usual, to 
the calls of humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, 
things of this kind should happen, especially to a 
man I have shewn every where, and carried 
amongst us as a particular acquaintance. 

Miss Rick. I find, sir, you have the art of 
making the misfortunes of others your own. 

Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private 
man like me do ? One man can't do every thing ; 
and then, I do so much in this way every day • 
let me see ;— something considerable might be 
done for him by subscription ; it could not fail if 
I carried the list. I'll undertake to set down a 
brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the 
lower house, at my own peril. 

Sir Will. And, after all, it's more than pro- 
bable, sir, he might reject the offer of such power- 
ful patronage. 

Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do? You 
know I never make promises. In truth, I once 
or twice tried to do something with him in the 
way of business ; but, as I often told his uncle, 
sir William Honeywood, the man was utterly 
impracticable. 

Sir Will. His uncle! then that gentleman, I 
suppose, is a particular friend of yours? 

Lofty. Meaning me, sir?— Yes, madam, as I 
often said, my dear sir William, you are sensible 
I would do any thing, as far as my poor interest 
goes, to serve your family; but what can be done? 
there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth- 
fate abilities. 

Miss Rich. I have heard of sir William Honey- 
wood; he's abroad in employment; he confided 
in your judgment, I suppose. 

Lofty. Why, yes, madam, I believe sir William 
had some reason to confide in my judgment; one 
little reason, perhaps. 

Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it? 

Lofty. Why, madam— but let it go no further — 
it was I procured him his place. 

Sir Will. Did you, sir ? 

Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 

Miss Rich. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, in- 
deed. 

Lofty. I did love him, to be sure; he had some 
amusing qualities; no man was fitter to be toast- 
master to a club, or had a better head. 

Miss Rich. A better head ? 

Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as 
dull as a choice spirit : but hang it, he was grate- 
ful, very grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude 
of faults. 

Sir Will. He might have reason, perhaps. His 
place is pretty considerable, I'm told. 

Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle, among us men of 
business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill 
up a greater. 

Sir Will. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? 
I'm told he's much about my size and figure, sir. 

Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; 
but then he wanted a something — a consequence 



POEMS AND PLATS. 



215 



of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives 
my meaning? 

Miss Rich. O, perfectly; you courtiers can do 
any thing, I see. 

Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere 
exchange ; we do greater things for one another 
everj r day. Why, as thus, now: let me suppose 
you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an 
employment in you that I want; I have a place in 
me that you want; do me here, do you there: 
interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and 
done, and it's over. 

Sir Will. A thoughf strikes me. {Aside.) Now 
you mention sir William Honeywood, madam, 
and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours ; 
you'll be glad to hear he's arrived from Italy; 1 
had it from a friend who knows him as well as 
he does me, and you may depend on my in- 
formation. 

Lofty. The devil he is ! if I had known that, we 
should not have been quite so well acquainted. 

[Aside. 
Sir Will. He is certainly returned; and, as this 
gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of 
signal service to us, by introducing me to him; 
there are some papers relative to your affairs, that 
require despatch and his inspection. 

Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a per- 
son employed in my affairs : I know you'll serve 
us. 

Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
proper to command it. 

Sir Will. That would be quite unnecessary. 
Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call 
upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. 

Sir Will. Now, or the opportunity will be lost 
for ever. 

Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. 
But damn it, that's unfortunate; my lord Grig's 
cursed Pensacola business comes on this very 
hour, and I'm engaged to attend — another time. 
Sir Will. A short letter to sir William will do. 
Lofty. You shall have it; yet, in my opinion, a 
letter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to 
face, that's my way. 

Sir Will. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 
Lofty. Zounds! sir, do you pretend to direct 
me ? direct me in the business of office 1 Do you 
know me, sir? who am I? 

Miss Rich. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not 
so much his as mine; if my commands — but you 
despise my power. 

Lofty. Delicate creature! your commands could 
even control a debate at midnight : to a power so 
constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. 
He shall have a letter. Where is my secretary? 
Dubardieu! And yet, I protest, I don't like this 
way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to 
sir William— but you will have it so. 

[Exit with Miss Richland. 
Sir Will. {Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! This too is 
one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity ! 
thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to 
exalt serve but to sink us ! Thy false colourings, 
like those employed to heighten beauty, only seem 
to mend that bloom which they contribute to 
destroy. I'm not displeased at this interview: 
exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt 
it deserves, may be of use to my design ; at least, 
if he can reflect, it will be of use to himself. 



Enter Jarvis. 

Sir Will. How now, Jarvis, where's your mas- 
ter, my nephew ? 

Jarv. At his wit's end, I believe : he's scarce 
gotten out of one scrape, but he's running his 
head into another. 

Sir Will. How so ? 

Jarv. The house has but just been cleared of 
the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging tooth 
and nail in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up 
a clandestine match with the lady that passes in 
the house for his sister. 

Sir Will. Ever busy to serve others^ 

Jarv. Ay, any body but himself. The young 
couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland; 
and he supplies them with money for the journey. 

Sir Will. Money! how is he able to supply 
others, who has scarce any for himself? 

Jarv. Why, there it is ; he has no money, 
that's true; but then, as he never said no to any 
request in his life, he has given them a bill, drawn 
by a friend of his upon a merchant in the city, 
which I am to get changed; for you must know 
that I am to go with them to Scotland myself. 
, Sir Will. How! 

Jarv. It seems the young gentleman is obliged 
to take a different road from his mistress, as he is 
to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the 
way, in order to prepare a place for their reception 
when they return ; so they have borrowed me from 
my master, as the properest person to attend the 
young lady down. 

Sir Will. To the land of matrimony 5 A pleasant 
journey, Jarvis. 

Jarv. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues 
on't. 

Sir Will. Well, it may be shorter and less fa- 
tiguing than you imagine. I know but too much 
of the young lady's family and connexions, whom 
I have seen abroad. I have also discovered that 
Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtless 
nephew; and will endeavour, though I fear in 
vain, to establish that «onnexion. But come, the 
letter I wait for must be almost finished; I'll let 
you farther into my intentions in the next room. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene. — Croaker's House. 

Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for 
running my head into such defiles, as nothing but 
a genius like my own could draw me from. I 
was formerly contented to husband out my places 
and pensions with some degree of frugality: but, 
curse it, of late I have given away the whole 
Court Register in less time than they could print 
the title page : yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or 
two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a 
thousand for nothing. Ha! Honeywood here 
before me. Could Miss Richland have set him at 
liberty? 

Enter Honeywood. 
Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad 
again. I find my concurrence was not necessary 
in your unfortunate affairs. I had put things in 
a train to do your business ; but it is not for me 
to say what I intended doing. 



216 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



Hon. It was unfortunate, indeed, sir. But what 
adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to 
be acquainted with my misfortune, I myself con- 
tinue still a stranger to my benefactor. 

Lofty. How! not know the friend that served 
you? 
Hon. Can't guess at the peison. 
Lofty. Inquire. 

Hon. I have; but all I can learn is, that he 
chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry 
must be fruitless. 
Lofty. Must be fruitless ? 

Hon. Absolutely fruitless. 
Lofty. Sure of that? 

Hon. Very sure. 

Lofty. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever 
know it from me. 

Hon. How, sir? 

Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you 
think my rent-roll very considerable, and that I 
have vast sums of money to throw away : I know 
you do. The world, to be sure, says such things 
of me. 

Hon. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger 
to your generosity. But where does this tend? 

Lofty. To nothing ; nothing in the world. The 
town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as 
me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that 
I never yet patronized a man of merit. 

Hon. I have heard instances to the contrary, 
even from yourself. 

Lofty. Yes, Honeywood ; and there are instances 
to the contrary, that you shall never hear from 
myself. 

Hon. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you but 
one question. 

Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask 
me no questions; I'll be damn'd if I answer 
them. 

Hon. I will ask no farther. My friend! my 
benefactor! it is, it must be here, that I am in- 
debted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou wor- 
thiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, 
but was afraid to return thanks ; which, if unde- 
served, might seem reproaches. 

Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this. 
Mr. Honeywood. You treat me very cavalierly, 
I do assure you, sir.— Blood, sir, can't a man be 
permitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, 
without all this parade ? 

Hon. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action 
that adds to your honour. Your looks, your air, 
your manner, all confess it. 

Lofty. Confess it, sir! Torture itself, sir, shall 
never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood I 
have admitted you upon terms of friendship. 
Don't let us fall out; make me happy, and let 
this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate 
ostentation; you know I do. Come, come, Ho- 
neywood, you know I always loved to be a friend, 
and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind 
of distance between us. Come, come, you and I 
must be more familiar — indeed we must. 

Hon. Heavens! Can I ever repay such friend- 
ship? Is there any way? Thou best of men, can I 
ever return the obligation ? 

Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle! But I see 
your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall 
be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint 
you. 

Hon. How? teach me the manner. Is there 
any way ? 



Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, 
my friend, you shall know it — I'm in love. 

Hon. And can I assist you ? 

Lofty. Nobody so well. 

Hon. In what manner? I'm all impatience 

Lofty. You shall make love for me. 

Hon. And to whom shall I speak in your fa- 
vour ? 

Lofty. Tb a lady with whom you have great 
interest, I assure you : Miss Richland. 

Hon. Miss Richland ! 

Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the 
blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 

Hon. Heavens ! was ever any thing more un- 
fortunate ? It is too much to be endured. 

Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed! And yet I can en- 
dure it, till you have opened the affair to her for 
me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. 
I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. 

Hon. Indeed! But, do you know the person 
you apply to ? 

Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and 
mine ; that's enough. To you, therefore, I com- 
mit the success of my passion. I'll say no mere, 
let friendship do the rest. I have only to add, 
that if at any time my little interest can be of ser- 
vice— hut, hang it, I'll make no promises— you 
know my interest is yours at any time. No apo- 
logies, my friend, I'll not be answered, it shall be 
so. {Exit. 

Hon. Open, generous, unsuspecting man! He 
little thinks that I love her too; and with such an 
ardent passion! — But then it was ever but a vain 
and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecution. 
What shall I do ? Love, friendship, a hopeless 
passion, a deserving friend ! Love, that has been 
my tormentor; a friend, that has perhaps dis- 
tressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes, 
I will discharge the fondling hope from my bosom, 
and exert all my influence in his favour. And 
yet to see her in the possession of another! — in- 
supportable ! But then to betray a generous, trust- 
ing friend!— Worse, worse! Yes, I'm resolved. 
Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, 
and then quit a country, where I must for ever 
despair of finding my own. [Exit. 

Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a 
milliner's box. 

Oliv. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
No news of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peevish 
creature delays purely to vex me. 

Gam. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him 
say; a little snubbing before marriage would 
teach you to bear it the better afterwards. 

Oliv. To be gone a full hour, though he had 
only to get a bill changed in the city ! How pro- 
voking. 

Garn. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had 
twice as much to do, is setting off by this time 
from his inn ; and here are you left behind. 

Oliv. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 
however. Are you sure you have omitted no- 
thing, Garnet? 

Garn. Not a stick, madam — all's here. Yet I 
wish you could take the white and silver to be 
married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in 
any thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of 
our town, that was married in red, and", as sure as 
eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff 
before morning. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



217 



Oliv, No matter. I'm all impatience till we 
are out of the house. 

Gam. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot 
the wedding ring! — the sweet little thing — I don't 
think it would go on my little finger. And what 
if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of 
necessity, madam? — But here's Jarvis. 

Enter Jarvis. 

Oliv. O Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have 
been ready this half hour. Now let's be going. 
Let us fly. 

Jarv. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no 
going to Scotland this bout, I fancy. 

Oliv. How ! what's the matter ? 

Jarv. Money, money, is the matter, madam. 
We have got no money. What the plague do you 
send me of your fool's errands for? My master's 
bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it 
is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it. 

Oliv. Undone ! How could Honey wood serve us 
so? What shall we do? Can't we go without it? 

Jarv. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scot- 
land without money ! Lord, how some people 
understand geography ! We might as well set 
sail for Patagonia upon a cork-jacket. 

Oliv. Such a disappointment ! What a base in- 
sincere man was your master, to serve us in this 
manner. Is this his good-nature? 

Jarv. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam. 
I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but 
myself. 

Gam. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you 
need not be under any uneasiness; I saw Mr. 
Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just 
before he set out, and he can't yet have left the 
inn. A short letter will reach him there. 

Oliv. Well remembered, Garnet ; I'll write im- 
mediately. How's this! Bless me, my hand 
trembles so, I can't write a word. Do you write, 
Garnet; and, upon second thought, it will be 
better from you. 

Gam. Truly, madam, I write and indite but 
poorly. I never was 'cute at my learning. But 
I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see 
All out of my own head, I suppose. 

Oliv. Whatever you please. 

Gam. {Writing.) Muster Croaker — Twenty 
guineas, madam? 

Oliv. Ay, twenty will do. 

Gam. At the bar of the Talbot till called for. 
Expedition — Will be blown up — All of a flame — 
Quick despatch — Cupid, the little god of love — I 
conclude it, madam, with Cupid ; I love to see a 
love-letter end like poetry. 

Oliv. Well, well, what you please, any thing. 
But how shall we send it? I can trust none of the 
servants of this family. 

Gam. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler 
is in the next room : he's a dear, sweet man , 
he'll do any thing for me. 

Jarv. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some 
blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day. 

Oliv. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we 
can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis, 
now we can have nothing more to interrupt us. 
You may take up the things, and carry them on 
to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis? 

Jarv. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are 
going to be married, think things can never be 
done too fast : but we that are old, and know 



what v/e are about, must elope methodically 
madam. 

Oliv. Well, sure if my indiscretions were to be 
done over again — 

Jarv. My life for it, you would do them ten 
times over. 

Oliv. Why will you talk so ? If you knew how 
unhappy they make me — 

Jarv. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just 
as unhappy when I was going to be married my- 
self. I'll tell you a story about that — 

Oliv. A story ! when I'm all impatience to be 
away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature !— 

Jarv. Well, madam, if we must march, why we 
will march ; that's all. Though, odds-bobs, Ave 
have still forgot one thing, Ave should never travel 
Avithout — a case of good razors, and a box of shav- 
ing-poAvder. But no matter, I believe we shall be 
pretty Avell shaved by the Avay. {Going. 

Enter Garkzt. 

Gam. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. 
Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death, 
Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped 
the letter before he Avent ten yards from the door. 
There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is 
this moment reading it to himself in the hall. 

Oliv. Unfortunate ! We shall be discovered. 

Gam. No, madam, don't be uneasy, he can 
make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure he 
looks as if he Avas broke loose from Bedlam about 
it, but he can't find Avhat it means for all that. O 
lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors ! 

Oliv. Then let us leave the house this instant, 
for fear he should ask farther questions. In the 
mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off 
just such another. [Exeunt. 

Enter Croaker. ' 
Croak. Death and destruction ! Are all the 
horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only 
at me ? Am I only to be singled out for gunpow- 
der-plots, combustibles, and conflagration? Here 
it is — an incendiary letter dropped at my door. 
' To Muster Croaker, these, with speed.' Ay, ay, 
plain enough the direction ; all in the genuine incen- 
diary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. * With 
speed.' Oh, confound your speed! But let me read 
it once more. (Reads.) ' Muster Croaker, as sone 
as yoAve see this, leve twenty gunnes at the bar of 
the Talboot tell called for, or yowe and yower expe- 
retion will be all bloAvn up.' Ah, but too plain. 
Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown 
up! murderous dog! All bloAvn up! Heavens! 
what have I and my poor family done, to be all 
blown up! (Reads.) 'Our pockets are low, and 
money Ave must have.' Ay, there's the reason ; 
they'll Moav us up, because they have got low 
pockets. (Reads.) ' It is but a short time you have 
to consider : for if this takes Avind, the house will 
quickly be all of a flame.' Inhuman monsters ! 
blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake 
at Lisbon Avas but a bonfire to it. (Reads.) 'Make 
quick dispatch, and so no more at present. But 
may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you 
wherever you go.' The little god of love ! Cupid 
the little god of love, go with me ! Go you to the 
devil, you and your little Cupid together ; I'm so 
frightened, I scarce knoAV whether I sit, stand, or 
go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted 
matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of gun- 



218 



GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS WOTtKS. 



powder. They are preparing to blow me up into 
the clouds. Murder ! We shall all be burnt in our 
beds ; we shall all be burnt in our beds. 

Enter Miss Richland. 

Miss Rich. Lord, sir, what's the matter? 

Croak. Murder's the matter. We shall all b 
blown up in our beds before morning. 

Hiss Rich. I hope not, sir. 

Croak. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
when I have a certificate of it here, in my hand? 
Will nothing alarm my family? Sleeping and eat- 
ing, sleeping and eating is the only work from 
morning till night in my house. My insensible 
crew could sleep though rocked by an earthquake ; 
and fry beef-steaks at a volcano. 

Hiss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so 
often already, we have nothing but earthquakes, 
famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year's end 
to year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above 
a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy 
among the bakers, to poison us in our bread ; and 
so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes. 

Croak. And potatoes were too good for them. 
But why do I stand here talking to a girl, when I 
should be facing the enemy without? Here, John, 
Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the 
cellars to see if there beany combustibles below; 
and above in the apartments, that no matches be 
thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put 
out, and let the engine be drawn out into the yard, 
to play upon the house in case of necessity. [Exit. 

Miss Rich, {alone.) What can he mean by all 
this ? Yet, why should I inquire, when he alarms 
us in this manner almost every day. But Honey- 
wood has aesired an interview with me in private. 
What can he mean? or, rather, what means this 
palpitation at his approach? It is the first time 
he ever showed any thing in his conduct that 
seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to— but 
he's here. 

Enter Honeywood. 

Hon. I presumed to solicit this interview, 
madam, before I left town, to be permitted— 

Miss Rich. Indeed ! leaving town, sir ? 

Hon. Yes, madam; perhaps the kingdom. I 
have presumed, I say, to desire the favour of this 
interview,— in order to disclose something which 
our long friendship prompts. And yet my fears— 

Miss Rich. His fears! what are his fears to 
mine? {Aside.) We have indeed been long ac- 
quainted, sir; very long. If I remember, our first 
meeting was at the French ambassador's.— Do 
you recollect how you were pleased to rally me 
upon my complexion there? 

Hon. Perfectly, madam; I presumed to reprove 
you for painting ; but your warmer blushes soon 
convinced the company, that the colouring was all 
from nature. 

Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it in your 
good-natured way to make me pay a compliment 
to myself. In the same manner you danced with 
the most awkward woman in the company, be- 
cause you saw nobody else would take her out. 

Hon. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night 
by dancing with the finest woman in the com 
pany, whom every body wished to take out. 

Miss Rich. Well, sir, if you thought so then, ■ 
fear your judgment has since corrected the error 
of a first impression. We generally show to most 



advantage at first. Our sex are like poor trades- 
men, that put all their best goods to be seen at the 
windows. 

Hon. The first impression, madam, did indeed 
deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all 
the faults of conscious flattered beauty. I ex- 
pected to find her vain and insolent. But every 
day has since taught me that it is possible to pos- 
sess sense without pride, and beauty without affec- 
tation. 

Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style very unusual 
with Mr. Honeywood; and I should be glad to 
know why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, 
which his own lessons have taught me to despise. 

Hon. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our 
long friendship, I presumed I might have some 
right to offer, without offence, what you may re- 
fuse without offending. 

Miss Rich. Sir! I beg you'd reflect; though, I 
fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a re- 
quest of yours ; yet you may be precipitate : con- 
sider, sir. 

Hon. I own my rashness; but as I plead the 
cause of friendship, of one who loves — Don't be 
alarmed, madam — who loves you with the most 
ardent passion, whose whole happiness is placed 
in you — 

Miss Rich. I fear, sir, T shall never find him 
whom you mean, by this description of him. 

Hon. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him 
out, though he should be too humble himself to 
urge his pretensions, or you too modest to under- 
stand them. 

Miss Rich. Well; it would be affectation any 
longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, 
I have been long prejudiced in his favour. It was 
but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he 
seemed himself ignorant of its value, 

Hon. I see she always loved him. {Aside.) I 
find, madam, you're already sensible of his worth, 
his passion. How happy is my friend, to be the 
favourite of one with such sense to distinguish 
merit, and such beauty to reward it. 

Miss Rich. Your friend, sir! what friend? 

Hon. My best friend— my friend, Mr. Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss Rich. He, sir ! 

Hon. Yes, he, madam. He is indeed what 
your warmest wishes might have formed him. 
And to his other qualities he adds that of the most 
passionate regard for you. 

Miss Rich. Amazement! No more of this, I beg 
you, sir. 

Hon. I see your confusion, madam, and know 
how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read 
the language of your heart, shall I make my friend 
happy, by communicating your sentiments ? 

Miss Rich. By no means. 

Hon. Excuse me ; I must ; I know you desire 

Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, 
that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. 
When I first applied to your friendship, I expected 
advice and assistance; but now, sir, I see that it 
is in vain to expect happiness from him, who has 
been so bad an economist of his own; and that I 
must disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a 
friend to himself. [Exit. 

Hon. How is this ? she has confessed she loved 
him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. 
Can I have done any thing to reproach myself 
with? No; I believe not; and yet, after all, these 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



219 



things should not be done by a third person ; I 
should have spared her confusion. My friendship 
carried me a little too far. 

Enter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, and 
Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croak. Ha, ha, ha ! And so, my dear, 
it's your supreme wish that I should be quite 
■wretched upon this occasion ? ha, ha ! 

Croak. {Mimicking.) Ha, ha, ha! And so, my 
dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no 
better consolation ? 

Mrs. Croak. Positively, my dear, what is this 
incendiary stuff and trumpery to me? our house 
may travel through the air, like the house of 
Loretto, for aught I care, if I am to be miserable 
in it. 

Croak. Would to heaven it -were converted 
into a house of correction for your benefit ! Have 
we not every thing to alarm us ? Perhaps this 
very moment the tragedy is beginning. 

Mrs. Croak. Then let us reserve our distress 
till the rising of the curtain, or give them the 
money they want, and have done with them. 

Croak. Give them my money ! and pray, what 
right have they to my money ? 

Mrs. Croak. And pray, what right have you to 
my good humour? 

Croak. And so your good humour advises me 
to part with my money ? "Why, then, to tell your 
good humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part 
with my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood, see what 
he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this 
incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will 
freeze you with terror ; and yet lovey here can 
read it — can read it, and laugh. 

Mrs. Croak. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 

Croak. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the 
next minute in the rogue's place, that's all. 

Mrs. Croak. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there 
any thing more foolish than my husband's fright 
upon this occasion ? 

Hon. It would not become me to decide, ma- 
dam : but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors 
now, will but invite them to renew their villany 
another time. 

Mrs. Croak. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 

Croak. How, sir, do you maintain that I should 
lie down under such an injury, and show neither 
by my fears nor complaints, that I have some- 
thing of the spirit of a man in me? 

Hon. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the 
loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The 
surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in the 
pursuit of it. 

Croak. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? 

Mrs. Croak. But don't you think that laughing 
off our fears is the best way ? 

Hon. What is the best, madam, few can say : 
but I'll maintain it to be a very wise way. 

Croak. But we are talking of the best. Surely 
the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and 
not wait till he plunders us in our very bed- 
chamber. 

Hon. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a 
very v.ise way too. 

Mrs. Croak. But can any thing be more ab- 
surd, than to double oar distresses by our appre- 
hensions, and put it in the power of every low 
feUow that can scrawl ten words of wretched spell- 
ing, to torment us 1 

Hon. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 



Croak. How ! would it not be more absurd to 
despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 

Hon. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 

Croak. Then you are of my opinion ? 

Hon. Entirely. 

Mrs. Croak. And you reject mine? 

Hon. Heavens forbid, madam! No, sure no 
reasoning can be more just than yours. We 
ought certainly to despise malice if we cannot 
oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as 
fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. 

Mrs. Croak. O ! then you think I'm quite 
right ? 

Hon. Perfectly right. 

Croak A plague of plagues, we can't both be 
right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. 
My hat must be on my head, or my hat must 
be off. 

Mis. Croak. Certainly, in two opposite opini- 
ons, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't 
be perfectly right. 

Hon. And why may not both be right, madam ? 
Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you 
in waiting the event with good humour. Pray let 
me see the letter again. I have it. This letter 
requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the 
Talbot inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, 
what if you and I, sir, go there; and when the 
writer comes to be paid his expected booty, seize 
him ? 

Croak. My dear friend, it's the very thing; the 
very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall 
plant yourself in ambush near the bar; burst out 
upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; extort 
a confession at once, and so hang him up by sur 
prise. 

Hon. Yes, but I would not choose to exercise 
too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that 
crimes generally punish themselves. 

Croak. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, 
I suppose? [Ironically. 

Hon. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 

Croak. Well, well, leave that to my own benevo 
lence. 

Hon. Well, I do ; but remember thatuniversal 
benevolence is the first law of nature. 

[Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croalcer. 

Croak. Yes ; and my universal benevolence will 
hang the dog, if he had as may necks as a hydra. 

[Exit. 



ACT V. 
Scene. — An Inn. 
Enter Olivia and Jarvis. 

Oliv. Well, we have got safe to the inn, how- 
ever. Now, if the post-chaise were ready — 

Jarv. The horses are just finishing their oats ; 
and, as they are not going to be married, they 
choose to take their own time. 

Oliv. You are for ever giving wrong motives 
to my impatience. 

Jarv. Be as impatient as you will, the horses 
must take their own time ; besides, you don't 
consider, we have got no answer from our fellow- 
traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leon- 
tine, we have only one way left us. 

Oliv. What way ? 

Jarv. The way home again. 



220 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Oliv. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, 
and nothing shall induce me to break it. 

Jarv. Ay ; resolutions are well kept, when they 
jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten 
things without. And I'll call, too, at the bar, to 
see if any thing should be left for us there. Don't 
"be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall 
go the faster, I promise you. [Exit Jarvis. 

Enter Landlady. 

Land. "What! Solomon, why don't you move? 
Pipes and tobacco, for the Lamb there.— Will no- 
body answer? To the Dolphin, quick. The 
Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did 
your ladyship call, madam ? 

Oliv. No, madam. 

Land. I find, as you're for Scotland, madam — 
But that's no business of mine ; married or not 
married, I ask no questions. To be sure we had 
a sweet little couple set off from this two days 
ago, for the same place. The gentleman, for a 
tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor, as 
ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young 
lady so bashful, it was near half an hour before 
we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry be- 
tween us. 

Oliv. But this gentleman and I are not going 
to be married, I assure you. 

Land. May be not. That's no business of 
mine; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom turn 
out well. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss 
Macfag, that married her father's footman. — 
Alack-a-day, she and her husband soon parted, 
and now keep separate cellars in Hedge-lane. 

Oliv. A very pretty picture of what lies before 
me .' [Aside. 

Enter Leontine. 

Leon. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you 
were out of danger, was too great to be resisted. 
I could not help coming to see you set out, though 
it exposes us to a discovery. 

Oliv. May every thing you do prove as fortu- 
nate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cru- 
elly disappointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon 
the city has, it seems, been protested, and we 
have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. 

Leon. How! an ofFer of his own too. Sure, 
he could not mean to deceive us. 

Oliv. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis- 
took the desire for the power of serving us. But 
let us think no more of it. I believe the post- 
chaise is ready by this. 

Land. Not quite yet; and, begging your lady- 
ship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship is quite 
ready for the post-chaise. The north road is a 
cold place, madam. I have a drop in the house 
of as pretty raspberry, as ever was tipt over 
tongue. Just a thimble-full to keep the wind ofF 
your stomach. To be sure, the last couple we 
had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. 
Ecod, I sent them both away as good natured — ■ 
Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and 
drive away, postboy, was the word. 

Enter Croaker. 
Croak. Well, while my friend Honeywood is 
upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my 
business to have an eye about me here. I think 
I know an incendiary's look; for wherever the 
devil makes a purchase, he never fails to set his 



mark. Ha! who have we here? My son and 
daughter !" What can they be doing here ! 

Land. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; 
I think I know by this time what's good for the 
north road. It's a raw night, madam. — Sir — 

Leon. Not a drop more, good madam, I should 
now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the 
horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. 

Land. That shall be done. What, Solomon! 
are you all dead there? What, Solomon, I say! 

[Exit bawling. 

Oliv. Well ! I dread, lest an expedition begun 
in fear, should end in repentance. — Every moment 
we stay increases our danger, and adds to my ap- 
prehensions. 

Leon. There's no danger, trust me, my dear : 
there can be none ! if Honeywood has acted with 
honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in 
employment till we are out of danger, nothing can 
interrupt our journey. 

Oliv. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sin- 
cerity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears 
are from your father's suspicions. A mind so 
disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be 
but too ready when there's a reason. 

Leon. Why let him when we are out of his 
power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no 
great reason to dread his resentment. His repin- 
ing temper, as it does no manner of injury to 
himself, so will it never do harm to others. He 
only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds 
for his private amusement. 

Oliv. I don't know that ; but, I'm sure, on some 
occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 

Croak. {Discovering himself.) How does he 
look now ? — How does he look now ? 

Oliv. Ah! 

Leon. Undone ! 

Croak. How do I look now? Sir, I am your very 
humble servant. Madam, I am yours. What, 
you are going off, are you ? Then, first if you please, 
take a word or two from me with you before you 
go. Tell me first where you are going; and when 
you have told me that, perhaps I shall know as 
little as I did before. 

Leon. If that be so, our answer might but in- 
crease your displeasure, without adding to your 
information. 

Croak. I want no information from you, puppy ; 
and you too, good madam, what answer have you 
got? Eh! {A cry without, Stop him.) I think 
I heard a noise. My friend Honeywood without 
— has he seized the incendiary? Ah, no, for now 
I hear no more on't. 

Leon. Honeywood without! Then, sir, it was 
Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither ? 

Croak. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood con- 
ducted me hither. 

Leon. Is it possible ? 

Croak. Possible! why, he's in the house now, 
sir; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 

Leon. Then, sir, he's a villain. 

Croak. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
most care of your father? I'll not bear it. I tell 
you I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to 
the family, and I'll have him treated as such. 

Leon. I shall study to repay his friendship as it 
deserves. 

Croak. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly 
he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the 
means to detect them, you would love him as I 
do. {A cry without, Stop him.) Fire and fury! 



POEMS AND PL, AYS. 



221 



they have seized the incendiary; they have the 
villain, the incendiary in view. Stop him ! stop 
an incendiary! a murderer! stop him! [Exit. 

Oliv. Oh, my terrors! What can this tumult 
mean? 

Leon. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Ho- 
neywood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfac- 
tion : he shall give me instant satisfaction. 

Oliv. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value 
my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our 
fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes — Con- 
sider that our innocence will shortly be all that we 
have left us. You must forgive him. 

Leon. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- 
stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money 
from him, which appears a mere trick to delay 
us; promised to keep my father engaged till we 
were out of danger, and here brought him to the 
very scene of our escape? 

Oliv. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be 
mistaken. 

Enter Postboy, dragging in Jarvis ; Honet- 
wood entering soon after. 
Post. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 
Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the 
reward : I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the 
money at the bar, and then run for it. 

Lion. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. 
Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Discover- 
ing his mistake.) Death! what's here? Jarvis, 
Leontine, Olivia! What can all this mean ? 

Jarv. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I 
was an old fool, and that you are my master— 
that's all. 

JTon. Confusion! 

Leon. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word 
with me. After such baseness, I wonder how 
you can venture to see the man you have injured. 

Hon. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour — 

Leon. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not con- 
tinue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know 
you, sir, I know you. 

Hon. Why, won't you hear me? By all that's 
just, I know not — 

Leon. Hear you, sir! to what purpose? I now 
see through all your low arts ; your ever comply- 
ing with every opinion ; your never refusing any 
request ; your friendship as common as a prosti- 
tute's favours, and as fallacious ; all these, sir, 
have been long contemptible to the world, and 
are now perfectly so to me. 

Hon. Ha! contemptible to the world! That 
reaches me. [Aside. 

Leon. All the seeming sincerity of your profes- 
sions, I now find, were only allurements to betray, 
and all your seeming regret for their conse- 
quences, only calculated to cover the cowardice 
of your heart. Draw, villain! 

Enter Croaker, out of breath. 

Croak. Where is the villain? where is the in- 
cendiary? (Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, 
the dog ; he has the gallows in his face. Come, 
you dog, confess ; confess all and hang yourself. 

Post. Zounds! master, what do you throttle 
me for? 

Croak. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist ? do 
you resist? 

Post. Zounds ! master, I'm not he ; there's the 
man that we thought was the rogue, and turns 
out to be one of the company. 



Croak. How? 

Hon. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a 
strange mistake here; I find there is nobody 
guilty : it was all an error ; entirely an error of 
our own. 

Croak. And I say, sir, that you're in an error; 
for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned 
Jesuitical pestilential plot, and I must have proof 
of it. 
Hon. Do but hear me. 

Croak. What, you intend to bring 'em off, I 
suppose ? I'll hear nothing. 

Hon. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to 
hear reason ? 

Oliv. Excuse me. 

Hon. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. 
Jarv. What signifies explanations when the 
thing is done ? 

Hon. Will nobody hear me? was there ever 
a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice? (To 
the Postboy.) My good friend, I believe, you'll 
be surprised, when I assure you— 

Post. Sure me nothing— I'm sure of nothing 
but a good beating. 

Croak. Come, then, you madam, if you ever 
hope for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sin- 
cerely all you know of this affair. 

Oliv. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the 
cause of your suspicions ; you see before you, sir, 
one that with false pretences has stepped into 
your family to betray it ; not your daughter— 
Croak. Not my daughter? 

Oliv. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver 
— who — support me, I cannot — 
Hon. Kelp, she's going — give her air. 
Croak. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the 
air; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose 
ever daughter she may be — not so bad as that 
neither. (Exeunt all but Croaker.) Yes, yes, 
all's out ; I now see the whole affair ; my son is 
either married, or going to be so, to this lady, 
whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, 
certainly so ; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so 
much as one might think. There's the advantage 
of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we 
never feel them when they come. 

Enter Miss Richland and Sir Williaji. 

Sir Will. But how do you know, madam, that 
my nephew intends setting off from this place ? 

Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come 
to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intend- 
ing to leave the kingdom suggested the rest. 
But, what do I see? my guardian here before us! 
who, my dear sir, could have expected meeting 
you here? to what accident do we owe this 
pleasure ? 

Croak. To a fool, I believe. 

Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come? 

Croak. To play the fool. 

Miss Rich. But with whom? 

Croak. With greater fools than myself. 

Miss Rich. Explain. 

Croak. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, 
to do nothing now I am here: and my son is 
going to be married to I don't know who, that is 
here ; so now you are as wise as I am. 

Miss Rich. Married ! to whom, sir ? 

Croak. To Olivia, my daughter as I took her to 
be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter 
she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. 

Sir Will. Then, sir, I can inform you; and, 



222 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



chough a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend 
to your family ; it will be enough, at present, to 
assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune 
the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being 
left by her father, sir James Woodville — ; 

Croak. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the 
west? 

Sir Will. Being left by him, I say, to the care 
of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to 
secure her fortune to himself, she was sent to 
France, under pretence of education; and there 
every art was tried to fix her for life in a convent, 
contrary to her inclination. Of this I was in- 
formed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had 
been once her father's friend, I did all in my 
power to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. 
I had even meditated to rescue her from his 
authority, when your son stepped in with more 
pleasing violence, gave her liberty, and you a 
daughter. 

Croak. But I intend to have a daughter of my 
own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose 
fortune, by my interest, with those who have in- 
terest, will be double what my son has a right to 
expect. Do you know Mr. Lofty, sir ? 

Sir Will. Yes, sir; and know that you are de- 
ceived in him. But step this way, and 111 con- 
vince you. 

[Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 

Enter Honeywood. 

Hon. Obstinate man, still to persist in his 
outrage! insulted by him, despised by all, I now 
begin to grow contemptible, even to myself. How 
have I sunk by too great an assiduity to please! 
How have I over-taxed all my abilities, lest the 
approbation of a single fool should escape me ! 
But all is now over; I have survived my repu- 
tation, my fortune, my friendships, and nothing 
remains henceforward for me, but solitude and 
repentance. 

Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you 
are setting off, without taking leave of your 
friends? The report is, that you are quitting 
England. Can it be ? 

Hon. Yes, madam; and though I am so un- 
happy as to have fallen under your displeasure, 
yet, thank heaven, I leave you to happiness ; to 
one who loves you, and deserves your love; to 
one who has power to procure you affluence, and 
generosity to improve your enjoyment of it. 

Miss Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- 
tleman you mean is what you describe him ? 

Hon. I have the best assurances of it, his 
serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest 
happiness, and that is in your power to confer. 
As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, 
obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what 
happiness can I find but in solitude I What hope 
but in being forgotten ? 

Miss Rich. A thousand! To live among friends 
that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be 
permitted to oblige you. 

Hon. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. In- 
feriority among strangers is easy; but among 
those that once were equals, in^jnportable. Nayi 
to show you how far my resolution can go, I can 
now speak with calmness of my former follies, 
my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will 
even confess, that, among the number of my 
other presumptions, I had the insolence to think 
of loving you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading 



the passion of another, my heart was tortured 
with its own. But it is over, it was unworthy 
our friendship, and let it be forgotten. 

Miss Rich. You amaze me ! 

Hon. But you'll forgive it, I know you will; 
since the confession should not have come from 
me even now, but to convince you of the sincerity 
of my intention of— never mentioning it more. 

[Going. 

Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha! he 
here — 

Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends. 
I have followed you here with a trifling piece of 
intelligence; but it goes no further, things are 
not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits work- 
ing at a certain board ; your affair at the Treasury 
will be done in less than — a thousand years. 
Mum! 

Miss Rich. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 

Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into 
proper hands, that know where to push and 
where to parry; that know how the land lies — 
eh, Honeywood? 

Miss Rich. It has fallen into yours. 

Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
your thing is done. It is done, I say — that's all. 
I have just had assurances from lord Neverout, 
that the claim has been examined, and found ad- 
missible. Quietus is the word, madam. 

Hon. But, how ! his lordship has been at New- 
market these ten days. 

Lofty. Indeed' Then sir Gilbert Goose must 
have been most damnably mistaken. I had .it 
of him. 

Miss Rich. He! why sir Gilbert and his family 
have been in the country this month. 

Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — 
sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from New- 
market, so that he must have met his lordship 
there; and so it came about. I have his letter 
about me; I'll read it to you (Taking out a large 
bundle.) That's from Paoli of Corsica; that from 
the marquis of Squilachi. — Have you a mind to 
see a letter from count Poniatowski, now king of 
Poland — Honest Pon — (Searching.) O, sir, what, 
are you here too? I'll tell you what, honest 
friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my 
letter to sir William Honeywood, you may return 
it. The thing will do without him. 

Sir Will. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must 
inform you, it was received with the most mor- 
tifying contempt. 

Croak. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
mean? 

Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. 
You'll find it come to something presently. 

Sir Will. Yes, sir, I believe you'll be amazed, 
if after waiting some time in the anti-chamber, 
after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by 
the passing servants, I was at last assured that 
sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and 
I must certainly have been imposed upon. 

Lofty. Good; let me die: very good. Ha! 
ha! ha! 

Croak. Now, for my life, I can't find out half 
the goodness of it. 

Lofty. You can't? Ha! ha! 
Croak. No, for the soul of me ! I think it wa« 
as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent 
fromone private gentleman to another. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



223 



Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of 
the message? Why, I -was in the house at that 
very time. Ha ! ha ! It was I that sent that very 
answer to my own letter. Ha! ha! 

Croak. Indeed! how? why? 

Lofty. In one word, things between sir William 
and me must be behind the curtain. A party has 
many eyes. He sides with lord Buzzard, I side 
with sir- Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the 
mystery. 

Croak. And so it does, indeed ; and all my sus- 
picions are over. 

Lofty. Your suspicions! What, then, you have 
been suspecting, have you ? Mr. Croaker, you and 
I were friends ; we are friends no longer. Never 
talk to me. It's over; I say it's over. 

Croak. As I hope for your favour, I did not 
mean to offend. ' It escaped me. Don't be discom- 
posed. 

Lofty. Zounds! sir, but I am discomposed, and 
will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who 
am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both 
by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the 
Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's ? have I 
been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at 
Merchant- Tailor's-hall? have I had my hand to 
addresses, and my head in the print shops ? and 
talk to me of suspects? 

Croak. My dear sir, be pacified — what can you 
have but asking pardon ? 

Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — suspects! 
Who am I? To be used thus! Have I paid 
court to men in favour to serve my friends ; the 
lords of the Treasury, sir William Honeywood, 
and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of sus- 
pects ? Who am I, I say, who am I ? 

Sir Will. Since, sir, you are so very pressing 
for an answer, I'll tell you who you are. A gen- 
tleman, as well acquainted with politics as with 
men in power ; as well acquainted with persons of 
fashion as with modesty; with lords of the Trea- 
sury as with truth ; and with all, as your are with 
sir William Honeywood. I am sir William Ho- 
neywood. [Discovering his ensigns of the Bath. 

Croak. Sir William Honeywood ! 

Hon. Astonishment ! my uncle ! [Aside. 

Lofty. So, then, my confounded genius has 
been all this time only leading me up to the 
garret, in order to fling me out of the window. 

Croak. What, Mr. Importance, and are these 
your works? Suspect you ! You, who have been 
dreaded by the ins and outs ; you, who have had 
your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up 
in print shops. If you were served right, you 
should have your head stuck up in a pillory. 

Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for, by the 
Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks 
at present. 

Sir Will. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now 
see how incapable this gentleman is of serving 
you, and how little Miss Richland has to expect 
from his influence. 

Croak. Ay, sir, too well I see it; and I can't 
but say I have had some boding of it these ten 
days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed 
his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be 
satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard 
of another Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better. 

Sir Will. I approve your resolution; and here 
they come to receive a confirmation of your 
pardon and consent. 



Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, 

and Olivia. 
Mrs. Croak. Where's my husband? Come, 
come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis has 
been here to tell me the whole affair; and I say 
you must forgive them. Our own was a stolen 
match, you know, my dear; and we never had 
any reason to repent it. » 

Croak. I wish we could both say so. However, 
this gentleman, sir William Honeywood, has 
been beforehand with you in obtaining their par- 
don. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to 
marry, I think we can tack them together without 
crossing the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. 

Leon. How blessed and unexpected! What, 
what can we say to such goodness? But our 
future obedience shall be the best reply. And as 
for this gentleman, to whom we owe — 

Sir Will. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. 
{Turning to Honeywood.) Yes, sir, you are sur- 
prised to see me; and I own that a desire of cor- 
recting your follies led me hither. I saw with 
indignation the errors of a mind that only sought 
applause from others ; that easiness of disposition, 
which, though inclined to the right, had not 
courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with re- 
gret those splendid errors, that still took name 
from some neighbouring duty ; your charity, that 
was but injustice; your benevolence, that was but 
weakness; and your friendship, but credulity. 
I saw with regret great talents and extensive 
learning only employed to add sprightliness to 
error, and increase your perplexities. I saw your 
mind with a thousand natural charms; but the 
greatness of its beauty served only to heighten 
my pity for its prostitution. 

Hon. Cease to upbraid me, sir; I have for 
some time felt but too strongly the justice of your 
reproaches. But there is one way still left me. 
Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to quit 
for ever a place where I have made myself the 
voluntary slave of all, and to seek among strangers 
that fortitude which may give strength to the 
mind, and marshal all its dissipated virtues. Yet, 
ere I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this 
gentleman, who, notwithstanding what has hap- 
pened, has laid me under the most signal obliga- 
tions. Mr. Lofty — 

Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a re- 
formation as well as you. I now begin to find 
that the man who first invented the art of speak- 
ing truth was a much cunninger fellow than I 
thought him. And to prove that I design to 
speak the truth for the future, I must now assure 
you, that you owe your late enlargement to 
another; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the 
matter. So now, if any of the company has a 
mind for preferment, he may take my place, I'm 
determined to resign. [Exit. 

Hon. How have I been deceived ! 

Sir Will. No, sir, you have been obliged to a 
kinder, fairer friend for that favour — to Miss Rich- 
land. Would she complete our joy, and make the 
man she has honoured by her friendship happy in 
her love, I should then forget all, and be as blessed 
as the welfare of my dearest kinsman could make 
me. 

Miss Rich. After what is past, it would be but 
affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will 
own an attachment, which I find was more than 



304 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter 
his resolution to quit the country, I will even try 
if my hand has not power to detain him. 

[Giving her hand. 

Hon. Heavens! how can I have deserved all 
this? How express my happiness, my gratitude? 
A moment like this overpays an age of appre- 
hension. 

Croak. Well, now I see content in every face ; 
but heaven send we be all better this day three 
months! 

Sir Will. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
yourself. He who seeks only for applause from 
without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. 

Hon. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my 
errors : my vanity in attempting to please all, by 
fearing to offend any ; my meanness in approving 
folly, lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, 
therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity 
for real distress; my friendship for true merit; 
and my love for her, who first taught me what it 
is to be happy. 




" Mrs, Hard.-, 
Mr. Highwajiuw 



\JKncltng.) Take com pais 



^Ije Jjtoops to Conquer. 



CHARACTERS. 



SIR CHART.ICS MARLOW 
VOUNO MARLOW 
HARDCASTLE 
HASTINGS 
TONV LUMPKIN 



DIOGORY 

MRS. HARDCASTLR 

MISS HARDCASTLE 

MIS8 NEVILLE 

MAID 



LANDLORD, SERVANTS, &C. &C. 

ACT I. 

Scene. — A Chamber in an old-fashioned House. 
Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle. 
Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're 
very particular. Is there a creature in the whole 



country, but ourselves, that does not take a trip 
to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? 
There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour, 
Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every 
winter. 

Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affec- 
tation to last them the whole year. I wonder 
why London cannot keep its own fools at home. 
In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly 
among us, but now they travel faster than a stage- 
coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as 
inside passengers, but in the very basket. 

Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times, 
indeed: you have been telling us of them for 
many a long year. Here we live in an old 
rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world 
like an inn, but that we never see company. Our 
best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's 
wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing- 
master: and all our entertainment your old 
stories of prince Eugene and the duke of Marl- 
borough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 

Hard. And I love it. I love every thing that's 
old : old friends, old times, old manners, old 
books, old wine; and I believe, Dorothy, (taking 
her hand,) you'll own I have been pretty fond of 
an old wife. 

Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for 
ever at your Dorothies and your old wives. You 
may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise 
you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more 
than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and 
make money of that. 

Hard. Let me see; twenty added to twenty 
Just fifty and seven. 

Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle ; I was 
but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, 
that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband; 
and he's not come to years of discretion yet. 

Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. 
Ay, you have taught him finely. 

Mrs. Hard. No matter ; Tony Lumpkin has a 
good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. 
I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend 
fifteen hundred a-year. 

Hard. Learning, quotha ! A mere composition 
of tricks and mischief. 

Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear ; nothing but 
humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow 
the boy a little humour. 

Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 
burning the footmen's shoes, frightening the 
maids, and worrying the kittens, be humour, he 
has it. It was but yesterday he fastenned my wig 
to the back of my chair, and when I went to make 
a bow, I popped my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's 
face. 

Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame ? The poor boy 
was always too sickly to do any good. A school 
would be his death. When he comes to be a little 
stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin 
may do for him? 

Hard. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, 
no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only 
schools he'll ever go to. 

Mrs. Hard. Well we must not snub the poor boy 
now, for I believe we shan't have him long among 
us. Any body that looks in his face may see he's 
consumptive. 

Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symp- 
toms. 

Mrs. Hard He coughs sometimes. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



225 



Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 
way. 

Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 

Hard. And truly so am I; for he sometimes 
whoops like a speaking trumpet — {Tony halooing 
behind the scenes) — there he goes — A very con- 
sumptive figure, truly. 

Enter Tony, crossing the Stage. 

Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my 
charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of 
your company, lovey ? 

Tony. I'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay. 

Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw 
evening, my dear: you look most shockingly. 

Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three 
Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's 
some fun going forward. 

Hard. Ay; the alehouse, the old place; Ithought 
so. 

Mrs. Hard. A low paltry set of fellows. 

Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Mug- 
gins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse-doctor, 
little Aminidah that grinds the music box, and 
Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. 

Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for 
one night at least. 

Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not 
so much mind ; hut I can't abide to disappoint 
myself. 

Mrs. Hard. {Detaining him.) You shan't go. 

Tony. I will, I tell you. 

Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. 

Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or I. 
[Exit, hauling her out. 

Hard, {solus.) Ay, there goes a pair that only 
spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a 
combination to drive sense and discretion out of 
doors? There's my pretty darling Kate; the 
fashions of the times have almost infected her too. 
By living a year or two in town, she is as fond of 
gauze and French frippery as the best of them. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! dress- 
ed out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! What a 
quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about 
thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age 
that the indigent world could be clothed out of the 
trimmings of the vain. 

Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. You 
allow me the morning to receive an.i pay visits, 
and to dress in my own manner, and in the 
evening I put on my housewife's dress to please 
you. 

Hard. Well, remember I insist on the terms of 
our agreement; and, by the by, I believe I shall 
have occasion to try your obedience this very 
evening. 

Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend 
your meaning. 

Hard. Then, to be plain w th you, Kate, I ex- 
pect the young gentleman I have chosen to be 
your husbandjiom town this very day. I have 
his father's letter, in which he informs me his son 
is set out, and that he intends to follow himself 
shortly after. 

Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known some- 
j thing of this before. tUess me, how shall I be- 
have? It's a thousand to one I shan't like him; 
! our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing 



of business, that I shall find no room for friend- 
ship or esteem. 

Hard. Depend upon it, child, I never will con- 
trol your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom 1 have 
pitched upon, is the son of my old friend sir 
Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk 
so often. The young man has been bred a scholar, 
and is designed for an employment in the service 
of his country. I am told he's a man of an excel- 
lent understanding. 

Miss Hard. Is he? 

Hard. Very generous. 

Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 

Hard. Young and brave. 

Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. 

Hard. And very handsome. 

Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more {kissing 
his hand), he's mine, I'll have him. 

Hard. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the 
most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the 
world. 

Miss Hard. Eh, you have frozen me to death 
again. That word reserved has undone all the 
rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it 
is said, always makes a suspicious husband. 

Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides 
in abreast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. 
It was the very feature in his character that first 
struck me. 

Miss Hard. He must have more striking fea- 
tures to catch me, I promise you. However, if he 
be so young, so handsome, and so every thing, as 
you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think 
Pll have him. 

Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
It's more than an even wager he may not have you. 

Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify 
one so? — Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking 
my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my 
glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer 
fashion, and look out for some less difficult ad- 
mirer. 

Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time, I'll 
go prepare the servants for his reception; as we 
seldom see company, they want as much training 
as a company of recruits the first day's muster. 

[Exit. 

Miss Hard. {Sola.) Lud, this news of papa's 
puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome; 
these he put last ; but I put them foremost.- Sen- 
sible, good-natured; I like all that. But then, 
reserved and sheepish, that's much against him. 
Yet can't he be cured of his timidity, by being 
taught to be proud of his wife ! Yes, and can't I— 
But I vow I'm disposing of the husband before I 
have secured the lover. 

Enter Miss Neville. 

Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my 
dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this 
evening? Is there any thing whimsical about me I 
Is it one of my well-looking days, child? am I in 
face to-day ? 

Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look: 
again— bless me ! — sure no accident has happened 
among the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has 
your brother or the cat been meddling? or has the 
last novel been too moving? 

Miss Hard. No ; nothing of all this. I have 
been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have 
been threatened with a lover. 

Miss Nev. And his nam e 



226 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 

Miss Nev. Indeed! 

Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 

Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of 
Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never 
asunder. I believe you must have seen him when 
we lived in town. 

Miss Hard. Never. 

Miss Nev. He's a very singular character, I 
assure you. Among women of reputation and 
virue, he is the modestest man alive ; but his ac- 
quaintance gives him a very different character 
among creatures of another stamp: you under- 
hand me. 

Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed. I shall 
never he able to manage him. What shall I do? 
Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occur- 
rences for success. But how goes on your own 
affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you 
for my brother Tony, as usual? 

Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our 
agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a 
hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty 
monster as the very pink of perfection. 

Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she 
actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no 
small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole 
management of it, I'm not surprised to see her 
unwilling to let it go out of the family. 

Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. 
But, at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but con- 
stant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at 
last. However, I let her suppose that I am in 
love with her son, and she never once dreams that 
my affections are fixed upon another. 

Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. 
I could almost love him for hating you so. 

Miss Nev. It is a good-natured creature at bot- 
tom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married 
to any body but himself. But my aunt's bell 
rings for our afternoon's walk round the improve- 
ments. Ailons ! Courage is necessary, as cur 
affairs are critical. 

Miss Hard. ' Would it were bed-time and all 
were well.' [Exeunt. 

Scene. — An Alehouse Bopm. 
Several shabby fellows, with punch and tobacco. 

Tony at the head of the table, a little higher than 

the rest ; a mallet in his hand. 

Omnes. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo! 

First Fel. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. 
The 'squire is going to knock himself down for a 
song. 

Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ' 

Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentleman, a song I 
made upon this alehouse, The Three Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, 

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning, 
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 

Gives genus a better discerning 1 , 
Let them brag of their heathenish gods, 

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians; 
Their quis and their quaes and their quods, 

They 're all but a parcel of pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, ioTnll. 

When Methodist preachers come down, 

A-preaching that drinking is sinfui, 
I '11 wager the rascals a crown, 

They always preach best with a skiTifu., 



But when you come down with your pence. 

For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
I '11 leave it to all men of sense, 

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Then come, put the jorum about,' 

And let us be merry and clever, 
Our hearts and our liquors arc stout, 

Here 's the three jolly pigeons for ever. 
Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 

Your bustards, your ducks, and vour widgeons; 
But of all the gay birds in the air, ' 

Here 's a health to the three jolly pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 

First Fel. The 'squire has got spunk in him. 
Second Fel. I loves to hear him sing, bekays he 
never gives us nothing that's low. 

Third Fel. O damn any thing that's low, I can- 
not bear it. 

Fourth Fel. The genteel thing is the genteel 
thing at any time. If so be that a gentleman 
bees in a concatentation accordingly. 

Third Fel. I like the maxum of it, master 
Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance 
a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. 
May this be my poison if my bear ever dances but 
to the very genteelest of tunes : ' Water Parted,' 
or ' The minuet in Ariadne.' 

Second Fel. What a pity it is the 'squire is not 
come to his own. It would be well for all the 
publicans within ten miles round of him. 

Tony. Ecod, and so it would master Slang. 
I'd then show what it was to keep choice of com- 
pany. 

Second Fel. Oh he takes after his own father 
for that, to be sure old 'squire Lumpkin was; the 
finest gentleman I ever set my eyes or... For 
winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket 
for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. 
It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best 
horses, dogs, and girls in the whole country. 

Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll be no 
bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of 
Bet Bouncer and the miller's gray mare to begin 
with. But come, my boys, drink about and be 
merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, 
what's the matter? 



Enter Landlord. 

Land. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise 
at the door. They have lost their way upo' the 
forest ; and they are talking something about Mr. 
Hardcastle. 

Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be 
the gentleman that's coming down to court my 
sister. Do they seem to be Londoners? 

Land. I believe they may. They look woundily 
like Frenchmen. 

Tony. Then de 'ire them to step this Avay, and 
I'll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Land- 
lord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough 
company for you, step down for a moment, and 
I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. 

\_Exeunt mob 

Tony (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling 
me whelp and hounu' this half-year. Now, if I 
pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old 
grumbletonian. But then I'm afraid— afraid of 
what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred 
a-year— and let him frighten me out of that if he 
can. 



TOEMS AND PLAYS. 



22] 



Enter Lanblord, conducting Marlow and 
Hastings. 

Mar. What a tedious, uncomfortable day have 
•we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles 
across the country, and we have come above 
threescore. 

Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccount- 
able reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire 
more frequently on the way. 

Mar. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay 
myself under an obligation to every one I meet, 
and often stand the chance of an unmannerly 
answer. 

Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to 
receive any answer. 

Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told 
you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle 
in these parts. Do you know what part of the 
country you are in ? 

Hast. Not in the least, sir, but should thank 
you for information. 

Tony. Nor the way you came? 

Hast. No sir ; but if you inform us — 

Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither 
the road you are going, nor where you are, nor 
the road you came, the first thing I have to inform 
you is, that — you have lost your way. 

Mar. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 

Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to 
ask the place from whence you came ? 

Mar. That's not necessary towards directing us 
where we are to go. 

Tony. No offence ; but question for question is 
all fair you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this 
same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, 
whimsical fellow, with an ugly face ; a daughter, 
and a pretty son ? 

Hast. We have not seen the gentleman, but he 
has the family you mention. 

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, 
talkative may-pole — the son, a pretty, well-bred, 
agreeable youth, that every body is fond of. 

Mar. Our information differs in this. The 
daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful ; 
the son, an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled 
at his mother's apron- string. 

Tony. He-he-hem! — Then, gentlemen, all I 
have to tell you, is, that you won't reach Mr. 
Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. 

Hast. Unfortunate ! 

Tony. It's a damn'd long, dark, boggy, dirty, 
dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the 
way to Mr. Hardcastle's ! {Winking at the Land- 
lord.) Mr. Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh, you 
understand me ? 

Land. Master Hardcastle's ! Lack-a-daisy, my 
masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong ! When 
you came to the bottom of the hill, you should 
have crossed down Squash Lane. 

Mar. Cross down Squash Lane ! 

Land. Then you were to keep straight forward 
till you came to four roads. 

Mar. Come to where four roads meet? 

Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take only 
one of them. 

Mar. O, sir, you're facetious. 

Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go 
sideways till you come upon Crack-skull Com- 
mon ; there you must look sharp for the track of 
the wheel, and go forward, till you come to farmer 



Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn you 
are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and 
then to the right about again, till you find out the 
old mill. 

Mar. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out 
the longitude ! 

Hast. What's to be done, Marlow ? 

Mar. This house promises but a poor reception ; 
though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. 

Land. Alack, master, we have but one spare 
bed in the whole house. 

Tony. And to my knowledge that's taken up by 
three lodgers already. {After a pause, in which the 
rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it. Don't you 
think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the 
gentlemen by the fire-side, with — three chairs and 
a bolster? 

Hast. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 

Mar. And I detest your three chairs and a 
bolster. 

Tony. You do, do you ? — then let me see — what 
if you go on a mile further, to the Buck's Head j 
the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best 
inns in the whole county ? 

Hast. O ho ! so we have escaped an adventure 
for this night, however. 

Land. {Apart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't send- 
ing them to your father's as an inn, be you ? 

Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that 
out. {To them.) You have only to keep on 
straight forward, till you come to a large old 
house by the road side. Youll see a pair of large 
horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up 
to the yard, and call stoutly about you. 

Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants 
can't miss the way? 

Tony. No, no ; but I tell you, though, the land- 
lord is rich, and going to leave off business; so he 
wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your 
presence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his 
company, and ecod ! if you mind him, he'll per- 
suade you that his mother was an alderman, and 
his aunt a justice of peace. 

Land. A troublesome old blade to be sure; but 
he keeps as good wines and beds as any man in the 
whole country. 

Mar. Well, if he supplies us with these, we 
shall want no further connexion. We are to turn 
to the right, did you say? 

Tony. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step 
myself, and show you a piece of the way. ( To the 
Landlord.) Mum. 

Land. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant 
—damn'd mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene. — An Old-fashioned House. 

Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four 
awkward servants. 

Hard. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table 
exercise I have been teaching you these three 
days. You all know your posts and your places, 
and can show that you have been used to good 
company, without ever stirring from home. 

Omnes. Ay, ay. 

Hard. When company comes you are not to pop 
up and stare, and then run in again, like frighted 
rabbits in a warren. 





228 



;oldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



Omnes. No, no. 

Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
the barn, are to make a show at the side table ; and 
you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the 
plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. 
But you're not to stand so, with your hands in 
your pockets. Take your hands from your pock- 
ets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead, 
you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're 
a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great 
matter. 

Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to 
hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill 
for the militia. And so being upon drill 

Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. 
You must be all attention to the guests. You 
must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you 
must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; you 
must see us eat, and not think of eating. 

Dig. By the laws! your worship, that's per- 
fectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating 
going forward, ecod! he's always wishing for a 
mouthful himself. 

Hard. Blockhead! is not a bellyful in the 
kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlour? Stay 
your stomach with that reflection. 

Dig. Ecod ! I thank your worship, I'll make a 
shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef 
in the pantry. 

Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if 
I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story 
at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as 
if you made part of the company. 

Dig. Then, ecod ! your worship must not tell 
the story of ould Grouse in the gun-room : I can't 
help laughing at that — he ! he! he! for the soul 
of me. We have laughed at that these twenty 
years — ha ! ha ha! 

Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. 
Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that — but 
still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of 
the company should call for a glass of wine, 
how will, you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if 
you please. {To Diggory.) Eh! why don't you 
move ? 

Dig. Ecod ! your worship, I never have cou- 
rage till I see the yeatables and drinkables brought 
upo' the table, and then I'm as bould as a lion. 

Hard. What, will nobody move? 

First Serv. I'm not to leave this place. 

Second Serv. I'm sure it's no place of mine. 

Third Serv. Nor mine, for sartain. 

Dig. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine. 

Hard. You numskulls! and so while, like 
your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the 
guests must be starved. O you dunces! I find I 
must begin all over again — But don't I hear a 
coach drive into the yard? To your posts, you 
blockheads. I'll go, in the mean time, and give my 
old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. 

[Exit Hardcastle. 

Dig. By the elevens ! my place is gone quite 
out of my head. 

Roger. I know that my place is to be every 
where. 

First Serv. Where the devil is mine? 

Second Serv. My place is to be no where at alls 
and so I'ze go about my business. 

[Exeunt servants running about as if frighted, 
different ways. 



Enter Ssrvakt with candles, showing mMAMOW 
and Hastings. 

Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This 
way. 

Hast. After the disappointments of the day, 
welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a 
clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a 
very well-looking house ; antique, but creditable. 

Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Hav- 
ing first ruined the master by good housekeeping, 
it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. 

Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed 
to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a 
good side-board, or a marble chimney-piece, 
though not actually put in the bill, inflame a 
reckoning confoundedly. 

Mar. Travellers, George, must pay in all places. 
The only difference is, that in good inns you pay 
dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced 
and starved. 

Hast. You have lived pretty much among them. 
In truth I have been often surprised, that you, 
who have seen so much of the world, with your 
natural good sense, and your many opportunities, 
could never yet acquire a requisite share of assur- 
ance. 

Mar. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, 
George, where could I have learned that assurance 
you talk of? My life has been chiefly spent in a 
college or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely 
part of the creation that chiefly teach men confi- 
dence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly 
acquainted with a single modest woman — except 
my mother. — But among females of another class 
you know— 

Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent enough 
of all conscience. 

Mar. They are of us, you know. 

Hast. But in the company of women of reputa- 
tion, I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler; 
you look for all the world as if you wanted an 
opportunity of stealing out of the room. 

Mar. Why, man, that's because I do want to 
steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed 
a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at 
any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance 
from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my 
resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit 
modesty: but I'll be hanged if a modest man can 
ever counterfeit impudence. 

Hast. If you could but say half the fine things 
to them, that I have heard you lavish upon the 
bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker — 

Mar. Why, George, I can't say fine things to 
them; they freeze, they petrify me. They may 
talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some 
such bagatelle, but to me, a modest Woman, 
dressed out in all her finery, is the most tremen- 
dous object of the whole creation. 

Hait. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can 
you ever expect to marry. 

Mar. Never; unless, as among kings and 
princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. 
If, indeed, like an eastern bridegroom, one were 
to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it 
might be endured. But: to go through all the 
terrors of a formal court-ship, together with the 
episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and 
at last to blurt out the broad staring question of, 
Madam, will you marry me ? No, no, that's a strain 
much above me, I assure you. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



229 



Hast. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
having to the lady you are come down to visit at 
the request of your father? 

Mar. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow 
very low Answer yes, or no, to all her demands — 
But for the rest I don't think I shall venture to 
look in her face till I see my father's again. 

Hast. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a 
friend can be so cool a lover. 

Mar. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my 
chief inducement down was to be instrumental in 
forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss 
Neville loves you, the family don't know you ; as 
my friend you are sure of a reception, and let 
honour do the rest. 

Hast. My dear Marlow! But I'll suppress the 
emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to 
carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in 
the world I would apply to for assistance. But 
Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is 
mine, both from her deceased father's consent, 
and her own inclination. 

Mar. Happy man! You have talents and art 
to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore 
the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of 
it I despise. This stammer in my address, and 
this awkward prepossessing visage of mine, can 
never permit me to soar above the reach of a 
milliner's 'prentice, or one of the duchesses of 
Drury-lane. Pshaw! this fellow here to inter- 
rupt us. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir you are 
heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to 
receive my friends w r ith my back at the fire. I 
like to give them a hearty reception in the eld 
style at my gate. I like to see their horses and 
trunks taken care of. 

Mar. {Aside.) He has got our names from the 
servants already. {To him.) We approve your 
caution and hospitality, sir. {To Hastings.) I have 
been thinking, George, of changing our travelling 
dresses in the morning. I am grown confound- 
edly ashamed of mine. 

Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no cere- 
mony in this house. 

Hast. I fancy, Charles, you're right; the first 
blow is half the battle. I intend opening the 
campaign with the white and gold. 

Hard. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentlemen 
— pray be under no constraint in this house. This 
is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as 
you please here. 

Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too 
fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before 
it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery 
to secure a retreat. 

Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 
puts me in mind of the duke of Marlborough, 
when we went to besiege Denain. He first sum- 
moned the garrison — 

Mar. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat 
will do with the plain brown? 

Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which 
might consist of about five thousand men — 

Hast. I think not; brown and yellow mix but 
very poorly. 

Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, 
he summoned the garrison, which might consist 
-of about five thousand men— 



Mar. The girls like finery. 

Hard. Which might consist of about five thou- 
sand men, well appointed with stores, ammu- 
nition, and other implements of war, Now, says 
the duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that 
stood next to him — you must have heard ot 
George Brooks— I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, 
but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of 
blood. So — 

Mar. What, my good friend, if you give us a 
glass of punch in the meantime ; it would help us 
to carry on the siege with vigour. 

Hard. Punch, sir? {Aside.) This is the most 
unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. 

Mar. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, 
after our journey, will be comfortable. This is 
Liberty-hall, you know. 

Hard. Here's a cup, sir. 

Mar. {Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty- 
hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 

Hard. {Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it 
to your mind. I have prepared it with my own 
hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients 
are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge 
me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better 
acquaintance. [Drinks. 

Mar. {Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ! 
but he's a character, and. I'll humour him a little. 
Sir, my service to you. [Drinks. 

Hast. {Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give 
us his company, and forgets that he's an inn- 
keeper, before he has learned to be a gentleman. 

Mar. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business 
in this part of the country. Warm work, now 
and then, at elections, I suppose ? 

Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work 
over. Since our betters have hit upon the expe- 
dient of electing each other, there is no business 
' for us that sell ale.' 

Hast. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I 
find? 

Hard. Not in the least. There was. a time, 
indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of go- 
vernment, like other people; but finding myself 
every day grow more angry, and the government 
growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since 
that, I no more trouble my head about Hyder 
Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, 
my service to you. 

Hast. So that with eating above stairs, and 
drinking below, with receiving your friends within, 
and amusing them without, you lead a good, 
pleasant, bustling life of it? 

Hard. I do stir out a great deal, that's certain. 
Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in 
this very parlour. 

Mar. {After drinking.) And you have an argu- 
ment in your cup, old gentleman, better than any 
in Westminster-hall: 

Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
philosophy. 

Mar. {Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever 
heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. 

Hast. So then, like an experienced general, 
you attack them on every quarter. If you find 
their reason manageable, you attack it with your 
philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you 
attack them with this. Here's your health, my 
philosopher. [Drinks. 

Hard. Good, very good, thank you; ha J ha! 
Your generalship puts me in mind of prince 



230 



GOLDSMITH 8 MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle 
of Eelgrade. You shall hear. 

Mar. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe 
it's almost time to talk about supper. What has' 
your philosophy got in the house for supper? 

Hard. For supper, sir! {Aside.) Was ever 
such a request to a man in his own house ? 

Mar. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an 
appetite. I shall make dev'lish work to-night in 
the larder, I promise you. 

Hard. [Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never 
my eyes beheld. (To him.) Why, really, sir, as for 
supper I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the 
cook-maid settle these things between them. I 
leave these kind of things entirely to them. 

Mar. You do, do you ? 

Hard. Entirely. By-the-by, I believe they are 
in actual consultation upon what's for supper this 
moment in the kitchen. 

Mar. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of 
their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When 
I travel, I always choose to regulate my own sup- 
per. Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, 
sir? 

Hard. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I don't 
know how: our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not 
very communicative upon these occasions. Should 
we send for her, she might scold us all out of the 
house. 

Hast. Let's see your list of the larder then. I 
ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite 
to my bill of fare. 

Mar. (To Hardcastle, who looks at them with 
surprise) Sir, he's very right, and it's my way 
too. 

Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's sup- 
per. I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, 
Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, 
colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no 
man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. 

Hast. (Aside.) All upon the high rope! His 
uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother 
being a justice of peace. But let's hear the bill of 
fare. 

Mar. (Pausing.) What's here? for the first 
course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. 
The devil, sir, do you think we have brought 
down the whole joiners' company, or the cor- 
poration of Bedford, to eat up such a supper? 
Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, 
will do. 

Hast. But let's hear it. 

Mar. (Reading.) For the first course at the top, 
a pig, and pruin sauce. 

Hast. Damn your pig, I say. 

Mar. And damn your pruin sauce, say I. 

Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are 
hungry, pig, with pruin sauce, is very good eating. 

Mar. At the bottom a calve's tongue and brains. 

Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good 
sir, I don't like them. 

Mar. Or you may clap them on a plate by 
themselves. 

Hard. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. 
(To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, 
make what alterations you please. Is there any 
thing else you want to retrench or alter, gentle- 
men? 

Mar item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a 
dish of tiff— taff— taffety cream. 



Hast. Confound your made dishes; I shall be 
as much at a loss in this house as at a green 
and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's 
table. I'm for pi ain eating. 

Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have no- 
thing you like, but if there be any thing you have 
a particular fancy to— 

Mar. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so 
exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as 
another. Send us what you please. So much for 
supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, 
and properly taken care of. 

Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. 
You shall not stir a step. 

Mar. Leave that to you! I protest, sir, you 
must excuse me, I always look to these things 
myself. 

Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself 
easy on that head. 

Mar. You see I'm resolved on it. (Aside.) A 
very troublesome fellow this as ever I met with. . 

Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend 
you. (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, 
but I never saw any thing look so like old- 
fashioned impudence. 

[Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. 

Hast. (Solus.) So I find this fellow's civilities 
begin to grow troublesome. But who can be 
angry at those assiduities which are meant to 
please him? Ea! what do I see? Miss Neville, 
by all that's happy ! 



Enter Miss Neville. 






Miss \ r ev My dear Hastings ! To what unex- 
pected good fortune, to what accident, am I to 
ascribe this happy meeting l 

Hast. Rather let me ask the same question, as 
I could never have hoped to meet my dearest 
Constance at an inn. 

Miss Nev. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunr, 
my guardian, lives here. What could induce you 
to think this house an inn ? 

Hast. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I 
came down, and I, have been sent here as to an 
inn, I assure you. A young fellow whom we ac- 
cidentally met at a house hard by, directed us 
hither. 

Miss Nev. Certainly it must be one of my hope- 
ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me 
talk so often, ha! ha! ha! 

Hast. He whom your aun*. intends for you? he 
of whom I have such just apprehensions ? 

Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, 
I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how 
heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, 
and has undertaken to court me for him, and 
actually begins to think she has made a conquest. 

Hast. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, 
my Constance, I have just seized this happy op- 
portunity of my friend's visit here to get admit- 
tance into the family. The horses that carried us 
down are now fatigued with their journey, but 
they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest 
girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall 
soon be landed in France, where even among 
slaves the laws of marriage are respected. 

Miss Nev. I have often told you, that, though 
ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little 
fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest 
part of it was left me by my uncle, the India 
director, and chiefly consists in jewels. I have 
been for some time persuading my aunt to let me 



POEMS Ai\D PLAYS. 



231 



wear them. I fancy I'm very near succeeding. 
The instant they are put into my possession you 
shall find me ready to make them and myself 
yours ! 

Hast. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I 
desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow 
must not be let into his mistake. I know the 
strange reserve of his temper is such, that, if 
abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit 
the house before our plan was ripe for execution. 

Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the 
deception? Miss Hardcastle is just returned 
from walking; what if we still continue to de- 
ceive him ? — This, this way — [ They confer. 

Enter Marlow. 

Mar. The assiduities of these good people tease 
me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it 
ill manners to leave me alone, and so claps not 
only himself but his old-fashioned wife on my 
back. They talk of coming to sup with us too; 
and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet 
through all the rest of the family. — What have we 
got here ? — 

Hast. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate 
you! — The most fortunate accident! — Who do 
you think is just alighted? 

Mar. Cannot guess. 

Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and 
Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss 
Constance Neville to your acquaintance. Hap- 
pening to dine in the neighbourhood, they called 
on their return to take fresh horses here. Miss 
Hardcastle has just stepped into the next room, 
and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky i 
eh! 

Mar. {Aside.) I have been mortified enough of 
all conscience, and here comes something to 
complete my embarrassment. 

Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate 
thing in the world? 

Mar. Oh, yes ! Very fortunate — a most joyful 
encounter — but our dresses, George, you know, 
are in disorder — what if we should postpone the 
happiness till to-morrow? — To morrow at her 
own house — it will be every bit as convenient — 
and rather more respectful — To-morrow let it be. 
[Offering to go. 

Miss Net;. By no means, sir. Your ceremony 
will displease her. The disorder of your dress 
will show the ardour of your impatience. Be- 
sides, she knows you are in the house, and will 
permit you to see her. 

Mar. O ! the devil ! how shall I support it. ? hem ! 
hem! Hastings, you must no^fcrgo. You are to 
assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly 
ridiculous. Yet, hang it! I'll take courage. 
Hem! 

Hast. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge, 
and all's over. She's but a wigman, you know. 

Mar. And of all women, she that I dread most 
to encounter! 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from 
walking. 

Hast. {Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. 
Marlow. I'm proud of bringing two persons of 
6uch merit together, that only want to know to 
esteem each other. 

Miss Hard. {Aside.) Now for meeting my modest 
gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his 
own manner. {After a pause, in which he appears 



very uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your 
safe arrival, sir — I'm told you had some accidents 
by the way. 

Mar. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. 
Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should 
be sorry— madam— or rather glad of any accidents 
—that are so agreeably concluded. Hem! 

Hast. {To him.) You never spoke better in 
your whole life. Keep it up, and I'll insure you 
the victory. 

Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You 
that have seen so much of the finest company 
can find little entertainment in an obscure corner 
of the country. 

Mar. {Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, 
in the world, madam; but I have kept very little 
company. I have been but an observer upon life, 
madam, while others were enjoying it. 

Miss Nev. But that, I am told is the way to 
enjoy it at last. 

Hast. {To him.) Cicero never spoke better. 
Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance 
for ever. 

Mar. {To Mm.) Hem! stand by me, then, and 
when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set 
me up again. 

Miss Hard. An observer, like y r ou, upon life 
were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you 
must have had much more to censure than to 
approve. 

Mar. Pardon me, madam. I was always will- 
ing to be amused. The folly of most people is 
rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. 

Hast. {To him.) Bravo, bravo! Never spoke 
so well in your whole life. Well! Miss Hard- 
castle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going 
to be very good company. I believe our being 
here will but embarrass the interview. 

Mar. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like 
your company of all things. {To him.) Zounds • 
George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us? 
Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, 
so we'll retire to the next room. {To him.) You 
don't consider, man, that we are to manage a little 
tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. 

Miss Hard. {After a pause.) But you have not 
been wholly an observer, I presume, sir; the 
ladies I should hope have employed some part of 
your addresses ? 

Mar. {Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, 
madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied— only — to 
— deserve them. 

Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very 
worst way to obtain them. 

Mar. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to con- 
verse only with the more grave and sensible part I 
of the sex — But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. 

Miss Hard. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I 
like so much as grave conversation myself; I 
could hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been 
surprised how a man of sentiment could ever 
admire those light airy pleasures, where nothing 
reaches the heart. 

Mar. It's — a disease — of the mind, madam. In 
the variety of tastes there must be some who, 
wanting a relish — for — um — a — um. 

Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must 
be some who, wanting a relish for refined plea- 
sures, pretend to despise what they are incapable j 
of tasting. * 

Mar. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better 
expressed. And I can't help observing — a — 



232 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Miss Hard. (Asiae.j Who could ever suppose 
this fellow impudent upon some occasions,. (To 
him.) You were going to observe, sir — 

Mar. I was observing, madam — I protest, 
madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 

Miss Hard. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To 
Mm.) You were observing, sir, that in this age 
of hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. 

Mar. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy 
there are few who upon strict inquiry do not— a 
— a — a — 

Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 

Mar. (Aside.) Egad! and that's more than I 
do myself. 

Miss Hard. You mean that in this hypocritical 
age there are few that do not condemn in public, 
what they practise in private, and think they pay 
every debt to virtue when they praise it. 

Mar. True, madam; those who have most 
virtue in their mouths, have least of it in their 
bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. 

Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir; there's some- 
thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, 
such life and force— pray, sir, go on. 

Mar. Yes, madam. I was saying — that there 
are some occasions — when a total want of courage, 
madam, destroys all the — and puts us — upon — a 
i — a — a — 

3Iiss Hard. I agree with you entirely, a want 
of courage upon some occasions assumes the ap- 
pearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we 
most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 

Mar. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam 
— but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next 
room. I would not intrude for the world. 

Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more 
agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go 
on. 

Mar. Yes, madam, I was — but she beckons us 
to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour 
to attend vou? 

Mist Hard. Well then, I'll follow. 

Mar. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has 
done for me. {Exit. 

Miss Hard. (Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! Was there 
ever such a sober sentimental interview? I'm 
certain he scarce looked in my face the whole 
time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable 
bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good 
sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it 
fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could 
teach him a little confidence, it would be doing 
somebody that I know of, a piece of service. But 
who is that somebody? That, faith, is a question 
I can scarce answer. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by 
Mrs. Haudcastle and Hastings. 

Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? 
I wonder you're not ashamed to be so _ very en- 
gaging. 

Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to 
one's own relations, and not be to blame. 

Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation 

you want to make of me though ; but it won't do. 

I tell you, cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you'll 

keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. 

[She follows, coquetting him to the back scene. 

Mrs. Hard. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you 
are very entertaining. There's nothing in the 
world I love to talk of so much as London, and 
the fashions, though I was never there myself. 



Hast. Never there! You amaze me! From 
your air and manner, I concluded you had been 
bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, 
or Tower Wharf. 

Mrs. Hard. O ! sir, you're only pleased to say 
so. We country persons can have no manner at 
all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves 
to raise me above some of our neighbouring 
rustics; but who can have a manner, that has 
never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the 
Borough, and such places where the nobility 
chiefly resort? All I can do is to enjoy London 
at second-hand. I take care to know every tgte- 
a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine, and have 
all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from 
the two Miss Rickets of Crooked-lane. Pray, 
how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings? 

Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon 
my word, mafiam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, 
I suppose? 

Mrs. Hard. I protest, I dressed it myself from 
a print in the Lady's Memorandum-book for the 
last year. 

Har.t. Indeed! Such a head in a side-box at 
the play-house, would draw as many gazers as my 
lady mayoress at a city ball. 

Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there 
is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; so 
one must dress a little particular, or one may 
escape in the crowd. 

Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, 
in any dress. (Bowing.) 

Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dressing 
when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side 
as Mr. Hardcastle? All I can say will never 
argue down a single button from his clothes. I 
have often wanted him to throw off his great 
flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to plaster it 
over, like my lord Pately, with powder. 

Hast. You are right, madam ; for, as among the 
ladies there are none ugly, so among the men 
there are none old. 

Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer 
was? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he 
said I only wanted him to throw off his wig to 
convert it into a tcte for my own wearing. 

Hast. Intolerable! at your age you may wear 
what you please, and it must become you. 

Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
take to be the most fashionable age about town. 

Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; 
but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for 
the ensuing winter. 

Mrs. Hard. Seriously? Then I shall be too 
young for the fashion. 

Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels, till 
she's past forty. For instance, Miss there, in a 
polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a 
mere maker of samplers. 

Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself 
as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels as the 
oldest of us all. 

Hast. Your niece is she? And that young 
gentleman — a brother of yours, I should pre- 
sume? 

Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted 
to each other. Observe their little sports. They 
fall in and out ten times a day, as if they were 
man and wife already. (To them.) Well, Tony, 
child, what soft things are you saying to your 
cousin Constance this evening? 

Tony. I have been saying no soft things; hut 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



233 



that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! 
I've not a place in the house now that's left to 
myself, but the stable. 

Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear. 
He's in another story behind your back. 

Miss Nev. There's something generous in my 
cousin's manner. He falls out before faces to be 
forgiven in private. 

Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. 

Mrs. Hard. Ah! he's a sly one. Don't you 
think they're like each other about the mouth, 
Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. 
They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, 
that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 

Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell 
you. [Measuring. 

Miss Nev. O lud! he has almost cracked my 
head. 

Mrs. Hard. O, the monster ! for shame, Tony. 
You a man, and behave so! 

Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. 
Ecod! I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm 
to get for the pains I have taken in your educa- 
tion ? I that have rocked you in your cradle, and 
fed that pretty mouth with a spoon ! Did not I 
work that waistcoat to make you genteel? Did 
not I prescribe for you every day, and weep while 
the receipt was operating? 

Tony. Ecod! you had reason to weep, for you 
have been dosing me ever since I was born. I 
have gone through every receipt in the Complete 
Housewife ten times over ; and you have thoughts 
of coursing me through Quincy next spring. But, 
ecod! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no 
longer. 

Mrs. Hard. "Wasn't it all for your good, viper? 
Was'nt it all for your good? 

Tony. I wish you would let me and my goort 
alone, then. Snubbing this way when I'm in 
spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it come of 
itself; not to keep dinging it, dinging it into 
one so. 

Mrs. Hard. That's false ; I never see you when 
you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the 
alehouse or kennel. I'm never to be delighted 
with your agreeable, wild notes, unfeeling mon- 
ster! 

Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the 
wildest of the two. 

Mrs. Hard. "Was ever the like? But I see he 
wants to break my heart, I see he does. 

Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 
young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can per- 
suade him to his duty. 

Mrs. Hard. Well! I must retire. Come, Con- 
stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the 
wretchedness of my situation; was ever any 
poor woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, 
provoking, undutiful boy ? 

[Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Neville. 

Tony. {Singing.) 'There was a young man 
riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang do 
didlo dee.' — Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's 
the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and 
sister cry over a book for an hour together, and 
they said, they liked the book the better the more 
it made them cry. 

Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I 
find, my pretty young gentleman ? 

Tony. That's as I find 'urn. 

Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I 



dare answer? And yet she appears to me a pretty 
well-tempered girl. 

Tony. That's because you don't know her as 
well as I. Ecod! I know every inch about her; 
and there's not a more bitter cantackerous toad 
in all Christendom. 

Hast. {Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for a 
lover ! 

Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a 
colt the first day's breaking. 

Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent. 

Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's 
with her play-mates, she as loud as a hog in a 
gate. 

Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her 
that charms me. 

Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she 
kicks up, and you're flung in a ditch. 

Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little 
beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 

Tony. Bandbox! She's all a made up thing, 
mun. Ah! could you but see Bet Bouncer of 
these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, 
she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks 
as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd 
make two of she. 

Hast. Well, what say you to a friend that would 
take this bitter bargain off your hands? 

Tony. Anan. 

Hast. Would you thank him that would take 
Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and 
your dear Betsy? 

Tony. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for 
who would take her? 

Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll 
engage to whip her off to France, and you shall 
never hear more of her. 

Tony. Assist you! Ecod I will, to the last 
drop of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to 
your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twink- 
ling, and may-be get a part of her fortin beside, in 
jewels, that ycu little dream of. 

Hast. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of 
spirit. 

Tony. Come along then, and you shall see 
more of my spirit before you have done with 
me. [Singing. 

We are the boys 

That fear no noise, 

Where the thundering cannons roar. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Enter Hardcastle, alone. 

Hard. What could my old friend, sir Charles, 
mean by recommending his son as the modestest 
young man in town ? To me he appears the most I 
impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a 
tongue. He has taken possession of the easy 
chair by the fireside already. He took off his 
boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them 
taken care of. I'm desirous to know how his 
impudence affects my daughter. — She will cer- 
tainly be shocked at it. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. 

Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
3'our dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there 
was no great occasion. 



234 



MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obey- 
ing your commands, that I take care to observe 
them without ever debating their propriety. 

Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 
some cause, particularly when I recommended 
my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 

Miss Hard. You taught me to expect some- 
thing extraordinary, and I find the original ex- 
ceeds the description. 

Hard. I was never so surprised in my life! 
He has quite confounded all my faculties ! 

Miss Hard. I never saw any thing like it ; and 
a man of the world too ! 

Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what a fool 
was I, to think a young man. could learn modesty 
by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a 
masquerade. 

3Iiss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 

Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company 
and a French dancing-master. 

Miss Hard. Sure you mistake, papa! A French 
dancing-master could never have taught him that 
timid look — that awkward address— that bashful 
manner — 

Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? 

Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise konte, 
his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 

Hard. Then your first sight deceived you; for 
I think him one of the most brazen first sights 
that ever astonished my senses. 

3Iiss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally! I never saw 
any one so modest. 

Hard. And can you be serious? I never saw 
such a bouncing swaggering puppy since I was 
born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 

Miss Hard. Surprising! He met me with a 
respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look 
fixed on the ground. 

Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly 
air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze 
again. 

Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and 
respect; censured the manners of the age; ad- 
mired the prudence of girls that never laughed ; 
tired me with apologies for being tiresome ; then 
left the room with a bow, and, 'madam, I would 
not for the world detain you.' 

Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his 
life before; asked twenty questions, and never 
waited for an answer; interrupted my best re- 
marks with some silly pun ; and when I was in 
my best story of the duke of Marlborough and 
prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand 
at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your 
father if he was a maker of punch. 

Miss Hard, One of us must certainly be mis- 
taken. 

Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, 
I'm determined he shall never have my con- 
sent. 

Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take 
him, he shall never have mine. 

Hard. In one thing then we are agreed — to 
reject him. 

Miss Hard. Yes. But upon conditions. For if 
you should find him less impudent, and I more 
presuming; if you find him more respectful, 
and I more importunate — I don't know — the 
fellow is well enough for a man — Certainly we 
don't meet many such at a horse-race in the 
country. 

Hard. If we should find him so — But that's im- 



possible. The first appearance has done my 
business. * I'm seldom deceived in that. 

Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good 
qualities under that first appearance. 

Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside 
to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest 
of his furniture. With her a smooth face stands 
for good sense, and a genteel figure for every 
virtue. 

Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
with a compliment to my good sense, won't end 
with a sneer at my understanding? 

Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradic- 
tions, he may please us both, perhaps. 

Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mistaken, 
what if we go to make further discoveries ? 

Hard. Agreed. But depend on't I'm in the 
right. 

Miss Hard. And depend on't I'm not much in 
the wrong. ' [Exeunt. 

Enter Tony, running in with a casket. 

Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. 
My cousin Con's necklace, bobs and all. My 
mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their 
fortin neither. O! my genus, is that you? 

Enter Hastings. 

Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed 
with your mother? 1 hope you have amused her 
with pretending love for your cousin, and that 
you are willing to be reconciled at last? Our 
horses will be refreshed in a short time, and we 
shall soon be ready to set off. 

Tony. And here's something to bear your charges 
by the way {giving the casket) ; your sweetheart's 
jewels. Keep them, and hang those, I say, that 
would rob you of one of them. 

Hast. But how have yon procured them from 
your mother ? 

Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If 
I had not a key to every drawer in my mother's 
bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as 
I do? An honest man may rob himself of his own 
at any time. 

Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be 
plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavouring to 
procure them from her aunt this very instant. 
If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at 
least of obtaining them. 

Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it 
will be. But I know how it will be well enough ; 
she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth iu 
her head. 

Hast. But I dread the effects of her resentment, 
when she finds she has lost them. 

Tony. Never you mind her resentmert, leave 
me to manage that. I don't value her resent- 
ment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds! here 
they are. Morice! Prance! {Exit Hastings. 

Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. 

Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. 
Such a girl as you want jewels! It will be time 
enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, 
when your beauty begins to want repairs. 

Miss Nev. But what will repair beauty at forty, 
will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 

Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



235 



That natural blush is beyond a thousand orna- 
ments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at 
present. Don't you see half the ladies of oar 
acquaintance, my lady Kill-day-light, and Mrs. 
Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to 
J town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites 
! back ? 

Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but some- 
body that shall be nameless would like me best 
with all my little finery about me? 

Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and 
then see if with such a pair of eyes, you want any 
better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my 
dear? does your cousin Con want any jewels in 
your eyes to set off her beauty. 

Tony. That's as hereafter may be. 

Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it 
would oblige me. 

Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and 
table cut things. They would make you look like 
the court of king Solomon at a puppet-show. 
Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. 
They may be missing, for aught I know to the 
contrary. 

Tony. {Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then why 
don't you tell her so at once, as she's so longing 
for them ? Tell her they're lost. It's the only way 
to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear 
witness. 

Mrs. Hard. (Apart to Tony.) You know, my 
dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So, if I say 
they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you? 
He! he! he! 

Tony. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll say I saw 
them taken out with my own eyes. 

Miss Nev. I desire them but for a day, madam. 
Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and 
then they may be locked up again. 

Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear 
Constance, if I could find them you should have 
them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost for 
aught I know; but we must have patience wher- 
ever they are. 

Miss Nev. I'll not believe it; this is but a 
shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are 
i too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are 
to answer for the loss — 

Mrs. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If 
they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But 
my son knows they are missing, and not to be 
found. 

Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are 
missing, and not to be found, I'll take my oath 
on't. 

Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my 
dear; for though we lose our fortune, yet we 
should not lose our patience. See me, how calm 
I am. 

Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the 
misfortunes of others. 

Mrs. Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your good 
sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. 
We shall soon find them; and in the mean time 
you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels 
be found. 

Miss Nev. I detest garnets. 

Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the 
world to. set off a clear complexion. You have 
often seen how well they look upon me. You 
shall have them. [Exit. 

Miss Nev. I dislike them of all tilings. You 
shan't stir.— Was ever any thing so provoking, to 



mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her 
trumpery. 

Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the 
garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are 
your own already. I have stolen them out of her 
bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your 
spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave 
me to manage her. 

Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! 

Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed 
them already. [Exit Miss Neville.] Zounds ! how 
she fidgets and spits about like a Catharine 
wheel. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
are cheated, plundered, broken open, undone. 

Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, 
mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of 
the good family ? 

Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has 
been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I'm 
undone. 

Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the 
laws, I never saw it better acted in my life. 
Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha! 
ha! ha! 

Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. 
My bureau has been broken open, and all taken 
away. 

Tony. Stick to that; ha! ha! ha! stick to that. 
I'll bear witnesss you know; call ms to bear 
witness. 

Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's 
precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be 
ruined for ever. 

Tony. Sure I know they're gone, and I'm to 
say so. 

Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
They're gone, I say. 

Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for 
to laugh, ha! ha! I know who took them well 
enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, 
that cant tell the difference between jest and 
earnest? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby. 

Tony. That's right, that's right ; you must be 
in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect 
either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. 

Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained 
brute, that won't hear me? Can you bear witness 
that you're no better than a fool? Was ever poor 
woman so beset with fools on one hand, and 
thieves on the other? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead, 
you, and I'll turn you out of the room directly. 
My poor niece, what will become of her ? Do you 
laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my 
distress ? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster? I'll 
teach you to vex your mother, I will. 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

[He runs off, she follows him. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. 

Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is 
that brother of mine, to send them to the house 
as an inn, ha ! ha ! I don't wonder at his impu- 
dence. 



236 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



Maid. But what is more, madam, the young 
gentleman, as you passed by in your present 
dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid? He 
.mistook you for the bar-maid, madam. 

Miss Hard. Did he ? Then as I live I'm resolved 
to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do 
you like my present dress? Don't you think I look 
something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem ? 
Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady 
wears in the country, but when she visits or re- 
ceives company. 

Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not re- 
member my face or person. 
Maid. Certain of it. 

Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so ; for though we 
spoke for some time together, yet his fears were 
such that he never once looked up during the 
interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would 
have kept him from seeing me. 

Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him 
in his mistake ? 

Miss Hard. In the first place I shall be seen, 
and that is no small advantage to a girl who 
brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps 
make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory 
gained over one who never addresses any but the 
wildest of her sex. But my chief aim is to take 
my gentleman off his guard, and like an invisi- 
ble champion of romance, examine the giant's 
force before I offer to combat. 

Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, 
and disguise your voice so that he may mistake 
that, as he has already mistaken your person ? 

Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got 
the true bar cant — Did your honour call ? — 
Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for the 
Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this half 
hour. 
Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. 

[Exit Maid. 

Enter Marlow. 

Mar. What a bawling in every part of the 
house ! I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go 
to the best room, there I find my host and his 
story. If I fly to the gallery, there we have my 
hostess with her curtsey down to the ground. I 
have at last got a moment to myself, and now for 
recollection. [Walks and muses. 

Miss Hard. Did you call, sir ? Did your honour 
call? 

Mar. {Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's 
too grave and sentimental for me. 

Miss Hard. Did your honour call ? 
[She still places herself before him, he turning away. 
' Mar. No, child. {Musing.) Besides, from the 
glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 

Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. 

Mar. No, no. {Musing.) I have pleased my 
father, however, by coming down, and I'll to- 
morrow please myself by returning. 

[ Taking out his tablets and perusing. 

Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, 
sir? 

Mar: I tell you no. 

Miss Hard. I should be glad to know, sir ? We 
have such a parcel of servants. 

Mar. No, no, I tell you. {Looks full in her 
face.) Yes, child, I think I did call — I wanted — I 
wanted — I vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 

Miss Hard. O la ! sir, you'll make one ashamed. 

Mar. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. 



Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any 
of your— a— what d'ye call it, in the house ? 

Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that 
these ten days. 

Mar. One may call in this house, I find, to very 
little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, 
just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips; 
perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. 

Miss Hard. Nectar! nectar! that's a liquor 
there's no call for in these parts. French, I sup- 
pose. We keep no French wines here, sir. 

Mar. Of true English growth, I assure you. 

Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it. 
We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I 
have lived here these eighteen years. 

Mar. Eighteen years ! why, one would think, 
child, you kept the bar before you was born. 
How old are you ? 

Miss Hard. Oh ! sir, I must not tell my age. 
They say women and music should never be 
dated. 

Mar. To guess at this distance you can't be 
much above forty. {Approaching.) Yet nearer I 
don't think so much. {Approaching.) By coming 
close to some women they look younger still; 
but when Ave come very close indeed — {Attempting 
to kiss her.) 

Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One 
would think you wanted to know one's age as they 
do horses, by mark of mouth. 

Mar. I protest, child, you use me extremely 
ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it 
possible you and I can ever be acquainted. 

Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted 
with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. 
I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that 
was here a while ago, in this obstropalous manner. 
I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, 
and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for 
all the world, as if you was before a justice of 
peace. 

Mar. (Aside.) Egad! She has hit it, sure 
enough. {To her.) In awe of her, child? Ha! ha! 
ha! a mere awkward, squinting thing, no, no. 
I find you don't know me. I laughed and rallied 
her a little; but I was unwilling to be too severe. 
No, I could not be too severe, curse me! 

Miss Hard. O ! then, sir, you are a favourite, 
I find, among the ladies ? 

Mar. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And 
yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to 
follow. At the ladies' club in town, I'm called 
their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my 
real name, but one I'm known by. My name is 
Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your ser- 
vice. — {Offering to salute her.) 

Miss Hard. Hold, sir; you are introducing me 
to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great 
a favourite there, you say ? 

Mar. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, 
lady Betty Blackleg, the countess of Sligo, Mrs. 
Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your 
humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 

Miss Hard. Then it's a very merry place, I 
suppose ? 

Mar. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and 
old women, can make us. 

Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle, ha! 
ha! ha! 

Mar. {Aside.) Egad ! I don't quite like this chit. 
She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ! 

Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



237 



time they have all for minding tneir wors or 
their family. 

Mar. {Aside.) All's well; she don't laugh at me. 
{To her.) Do you ever work, child? 

Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or 
a quilt in the whole house hut what can hear 
witness to that. 

Mar. Odso ! then you must show me your 
embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns my- 
self a little. If you want a j udge of your work you 
must apply to me. [Seizing her hand. 

. Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours do not look 
well by candle light. You shall see all in the 
morning. [Struggling. 

Mar. And why not now, my angel ? Such beauty 

fires beyond the power of resistance. Pshaw ! 

the father here! my old luck: I never nicked 
seven that I did not throw ames ace three times 
following. [Exit Marlow. 

Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. 

Hard. So, madam. So I find this is your mo- 
dest lover. This is your humble admirer, that 
kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only 
adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou 
not ashamed to deceive your father so ? 

Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but 
he's still the modest man I first took him for, 
you'll be convinced of it as well as I. 

Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his 
impudence is infectious! did'nt I see him seize 
your hand? did'nt I see him hawl you about like 
a milk-maid? and now you talk of his respect 
and his modesty, forsooth ! • ■ 

Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of 
his modesty, that he has only the faults that will 
pass off with time, and the virtues that will im- 
prove with age, I hope you'll forgive him. 

Hard. The girl would actually make one run 
mad! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am 
convinced. He has scarce been three hours in the 
house, and he has already encroached on all my 
prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and 
call it modesty. But my son-in-law, madam, 
must have very T different qualifications. 

Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince 
you. 

Hard. You shall not have half the time, for I 
have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 

Miss Hard. Give me that hour, then, and I 
hope to satisfy you. 

Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll 
have no trifling with your father. All fair and 
open, do you mind me. 

Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found 
that I considered your commands as my pride; 
for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has 
been inclination. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Hast. You surprise me: Sir Charles Marlow 
expected here this night! Where have you had 
your information? 

Miss Nev. You may depend upon it. I just 
saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he 
tells him he intends setting out a few hours after 
his son. 

Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be com- 



pleted before he arrives. He knows me; and 
should he find me here, would discover my name, 
and perhaps my designs to the rest of the family. 

Miss Nev. The jewels I hope are safe. 

Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean 
time, I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. 
I have had the 'squire's promise of a pair of fresh 
horses ; and, if I should not see him again, will 
write him further directions. [Exit. 

Miss Nev. Well! success attend you. In the 
mean time, I'll go amuse my aunt with the old 
pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. 

[Exit. 

Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 

Mar. I wonder what Hastings could mean by 
sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep 
for him, when he knows the only place I have is 
the seat of a post-coach, at an inn-door. Have 
you deposited the casket with the landlady, as I 
ordered you? Have you put it into her own 
hands? 

Serv. Yes, your honour. 

Mar. She said she'd keep it safe, did she? 

Serv. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; 
she asked me how I came by it? and she said she 
had a great mind to make me give an account of 
myself. [Exit. 

Mar. Ha! ha! ha! They're safe, however. 
What an accountable set of beings we have got 
amongst! This little bar-maid, though, runs in 
my head most strangely, and drives out the ab- 
surdities of all the rest of the family. She is 
mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that 
I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. 
Marlow here, and in spirits too ! 

Mar. Give me joy, George! Crown me, shadow 
me with laurels! Well, George, after all, we 
modest fellows don't want for success among the 
women. 

Hast. Some women you mean. But what suc- 
cess has your honour's modesty been crowned 
with now, that it grows so insolent upon us? 

Alar. Did'nt you see the tempting, brisk, lovely 
little thing that runs about the house with a bunch 
of keys to its girdle ? 

Hast. Well, and what then? 

Mar. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, 
such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad! 
she would not let me kiss them though. 

Hast. But are you so sure, so very sure of her?. 

Mar. Why, man, she talked of showing me her 
work above stairs, and I am to improve the 
pattern. 

Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about to 
rob a woman of her honour? 

Mar. Pshaw ! pshaw! We all know the honour 
of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob 
her; there's nothing in this house I shan't ho- 
nestly pay for. 

Hast. I believe the girl has virtue. 

Mar. And if she has, I should be the last man 
in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 

Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
casket I sent you to lock up ? It's in safety? 

Mar. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have taken 



238 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



care of it. But how could you think the seat of a 
post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety? Ah I 
numskull! I have taken better precautions for 
you than you did for yourself— I have — 

Hast. What? 

Mar. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for 
you. 

Hast. To the landlady ! 

Mar. The landlady. 

Hast. You did? 

Mar. I did. She's to be answerable for its 
forthcoming, you know. 

Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. 

Mar. Wasn't I right ? I believe you'll allow that 
I acted prudently upon this occasion. 

Hast. {Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. 

Mar. You seem a little disconcerted though, 
methinks. Sure nothing has happened? 

Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits 
in all my life. And so you left it with the land- 
lad}', who, no doubt, very readily undertook the 
charge ? 

Mar. Rather too readily. For she not only kept 
the casket; but, through her great precaution, 
was going to keep the messenger too. Ha! ha! 
ha! 

Hast. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however. 

Mar. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 

Hast. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are 
at an end, and we must set off without it. (To 
him.) Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your medi- 
tations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he! he! he! 
may you be as successful for yourself as you have 
been for me. [Exit. 

Mar. Thank ye, George, I ask no more. Ha 1 
jha! ha! 

"^ Enter Hardcastle. 

Hard. I no longer know my own house. It's 
turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got 
drunk already. I'll bear it no longer, and yet 
from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. ( To 
him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very 
humble servant. [Bowing low. 

Mar. Sir your humble servant. {Aside.) What's 
to be the wonder now ? 

Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, 
that no man alive ought to be more welcome than 
your father's son, sir. I hope you think so ? 

Mar. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want 
much entreaty. I generally make my father's 
son welcome wherever he goes. 

Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
But though I say nothing to your own conduct, 
that of your servants is insufferable. Their 
manner of drinking is setting a very bad example 
in tliis house, I assure you. 

Mar. I protest, my very good sir, that is no 
fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, 
they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare 
the cellar, I did, I assure you. {To the side scene.) 
Here, let one of my servants come up. (To him.) 
My positive directions were, that as I did not 
drink myself, they should make up for my defi- 
ciencies below. 

Hard. Then they had your orders for what they 
do? I'm satisfied! 

Mar. They had I assure you. You shall hear 
it from one of themselves. 

Enter Servant, drunk. 
Mar. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah I 



What were my orders? Were you not told to drink 
freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the 
good of the house ? 

Hard. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 

Jer. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street 
for ever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good 
as another man. I'll drink for no man before 
supper, sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon 
a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon 
— hiccup — upon my conscience, sir. 

Mar. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as 
drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what* 
you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor devil 
soused in a beer-barrel. 

Hard. Zounds! he'll drive me distracted, if I 
contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow : sir, I 
have submitted to your insolence for more than 
four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming 
to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, 
sir, and I desire that you and your drunken pack 
may leave my house directly. 

Mar. Le^ve your house! Sure you jest, my 
good friend ! What, when I'm doing what I can to 
please you. 

Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so I 
desire you'll leave my house. 

Mar. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time 
o'night, and such a night. You only mean to 
banter me? 

Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious; and, now 
that my passions are roused, I say this house is 
mine, sir; this house is mine, and I command 
you to leave it directly. 

Mar. Ha! ha! ha! A puddle in a storm, I 
shan't stir a step, I assure you. (In a serious 
tone.) This your house, fellow! It's my house 
This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. 
What right have you to bid me to leave this 
house, sir? I never met with such impudence, 
curse me, never in my whole life before. 

Hard. Nor I, confound me, if ever I did. To 
come to my house, to call for what he likes, to 
turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, 
to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell 
me, ' This house is mine, sir.' By all that's impu- 
dent, it makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, 
sir, (bantering) as you take the house, what think 
you of taking the rest of the furniture ? There's a 
pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire- 
screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows; 
perhaps you may take a fancy to them? 

Mar. Bring me your bill, sir; bring me your 
bill, and let's make no more words about it. 

Hard. There are a set of prints too. What 
think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apart- 
ment? 

Mar. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave 
you and your infernal house directly. 

Hard. Then there's a mahogany table, that you 
may see your own face in. 

Mar. My bill, I say. 

Hard. I had forgot the great chair, for your 
own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 

Mar. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's 
hear no more on't. 

Hard. Young man, young man, from ) r our 
father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a 
well-bred modest man as a visitor here, but now I 
find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; 
but lie will be down here presently, and shall hear 
more of it. [Exit. 

Mar. How's tMsl Sure I have cot mistaken 



POEMS AND PLAYS, 



239 



the house ! Every thing looks like an inn. The 
servants cry, Coming. The attendance is awk- 
ward ; the bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she's 
here, and. will further inform me. Whither so 
fast, child ? A word with you. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a 
hurry. {Aside.) I believe he hegins to find out 
his mistake, but it's too soon quite to undeceive 
him. 

Mar. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
What are you, and what may your business in 
this house be? 

Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 

Mar. What, a poor relation ? 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir. A poor relation appointed 
to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want 
nothing in my power to give them. 

Mar. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this 
inn. 

Miss Hard. Inn! O la! — What brought that in 
your head? One of the best families in the county 
keep an inn ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's 
house an inn ! 

Mar. Mr. Hardcastle's house! Is this Mr. 
Hardcastle's house, child ? 

Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it 
be? 

:lar. So, then, all's out, and I have been dam- 
nably imposed on. O, confound my stupid head, 
I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I 
shall be stuck up in caricature in all the print- 
shops. The Dullissimo Maecaroni. To mistake 
this house, of all others, for an inn. and my father's 
old friend for an inn-keeper! What a swaggering 
puppy must he take me for ! What a silly puppy 
do I find myself! There again, may I be hanged, 
my dear, hut I mistook you for the bar-maid. 

Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure 
there's nothing in my behaviour to put me on a 
level with one of that stamp. 

Mar. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was 
in for a list of blunders, and could not help 
making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw 
every thing in the wrong way — I mistook your 
assiduity for assurance, and your simplicity for 
allurement. But it's over — this house I no more 
shew my face in. 

Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I've done nothing to 
disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront 
any gentleman who has been so polite, and said 
so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be 
sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family on 
my account. I'm sure I should be sorry people 
said any thing amiss, since I have no fortune but 
my character. 

Mar. (Aside.) By heaven, she weeps. This is 
the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a 
modest woman, and it touches me. (To her.) 
Excuse me, my lovely girl, you are the only part 
of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be 
plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, 
and education, make an honourable connexion 
impossible; and I can never harbour a thought 
of seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour 
— of bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault 
was being too lovely. 

Miss Hard. (Aside.) Generous man! I now 
>>egin to admire him. (To him.) But I am sure 

ly family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's; and 
though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a 



contented mind, and, until this moment, I never 
thought that it was bad to want fortune. 

Mar. And why now, my pretty simplicity? 

Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance 
from one, that if I had a thousand pounds I would 
give it all to. 

Mar. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me so, 
that if I stay I'm undone. I must make one bold 
effort, and leave her. (To her.) Your partiality 
in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly, 
and were I to live for myself alone, I could easily 
fix my choice. But I owe too much to the 
opinion of the world, too much to the authority of 
a father, so that — I can • scarcely speak it— it 
affects me. Farewell. [Exit. 

Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till 
now. He shall not go if I have power or art to 
detain him. I'll still preserve the character in 
which I stooped to conquer, hut will undeceive 
papa, who perhaps will laugh him out of his 
resolution. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville. 

Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
time. I have done my duty. She has got the 
jewels again, that's a sure thing; but she believes 
it was all a mistake of the servants. 

Miss Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't 
forsake us in this distress. If she in the least 
suspects that I am going off, 1 shall certainly be 
locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which 
is ten times worse. 

Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned 
had things. But what can I do ? I have got you 
a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle Jacket; 
and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted 
you nicely before her face. Here she comes, we 
must court a bit or two more, for fear she should 
suspect us. (They retire, and seem to fondle.) 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to he 
sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake 
of the servants. I sha'n't be easy, however, till 
they are fairly married, and then let her keep her 
own fortune. But what do I see? fondling to- 
gether, as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly 
before. Ah ! have I caught you, my pretty doves ? 
What, billing, exchanging stolen glances and 
broken murmurs ? Ah! 

Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble 
a little now and then, to he sure ; but there's no 
love lost between us. 

Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the 
flame, only to make it burn brighter. 

Miss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us 
more of his company at home. Indeed, he sha'n't 
leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin 
Tony, will it ? 

Tony. O ! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd 
sooner leave my horse in a pond, than leave you 
when you smile upon one so iTour laugh makes 
j'ou so becoming 

Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin! Who can help 
admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, 
broad, red, thoughtless — {patting his cheek) — ant 
it's a bold face. 
Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence ! 
Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's 
hazel eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she 
twists this way and that over the haspicohs, like 
a parcel of bobbins. 



240 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Mrs. Hard. An ! lie would cliarm tne bird from 
the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy 
takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. 
The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incon- 
tinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet 
boy, my dear? You shall be married to-morrow, 
and we'll put off the rest of his education, like 
Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. 

Enter Diggouy. 

Dig. Where's the 'squire? I have got a letter 
for your worship. 

Tony. Give.it to my mamma. She reads all 
my letters first. 

Dig. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
hands. 

Tony. Who does it come from ? 

Dig. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
itself. 

Tony. I could wish to know, though — {Turning 
the letter, and gazing on it.) 

Miss Nev. (Aside.) Undone! undone! A letter 
to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my 
aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her 
employed a little, if I can. {To Mrs. Hardcastle.) 
But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's 
smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so 
laughed — You must know, madam — This way a 
little, for he must not hear us. (They confer.) 

Tony. {Still gazing.) A damned cramp piece of 
penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can 
read your print hand very well. But here there 
are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that 
one can scarce tell the head from the tail. ' To 
Anthony Lumpkin, esquire.' It's very odd, I can. 
read the outside of my letters, where my own 
name is, well enough. But when I come to open 
it, it's all — buzz. That's hard, very hard; for 
the inside of the letter is always the cream of the 
correspondence. 

Mrs. Hard. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. 
And so my son was too hard for the philosopher. 

Miss Nev. Yes, madam; but you must hear 
the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he 
may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him 
again. 

Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now 
himself, methinks. 

Tony. {Still gazing.) A damned up and down 
hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. {Reading.) 
Dear sir, — Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, 
and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an 
izzard, or an R, confound me, I cannot tell ! 

Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear ? Can I give 
you any assistance? 

Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody 
reads a cramp hand better than I. (Twitching 
the letter from him.) Do you know who it is 
from? 

Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger the 
feeder. 

Miss Nev. Ay, so it is. ( Pretending to read.) 
Dear 'squire, hoping that you're in health, as I 
am at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake- 
bag club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green 
quite out of feather. The odds — um — odd battle 
— um — long fighting — um— here, here, it's all about 
cocks and fighting; it's of no consequence, here, 
put it up, put it up. 

[Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him. 
Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the con- 
sequence in the world. I would not lose the rest 



of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it 
out. Of no consequence ! 

[Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. 

Mrs. Hard. How's this ! {Reads.) ' Dear 'squire, 
I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a post- 
chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but 
I find my horses yet unable to perform the journey. 
I expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh 
horses, as you promised. Despatch is necessary, 
as the hag (ay, the hag,) your mother, will other- 
wise suspect us. Yours, Hastings.' Grant me 
patience : I shall run distracted. My rage chokes 
me. 

Miss Nev. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your 
resentment for a few moments, and not impute 
to me any impertinence, or sinister design that 
belongs to another. 

Mrs. Hard. (Curtsying very low.) Fine spoken, 
madam; you are most miraculously polite and 
engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and 
circumspection, madam. (Changing her tone.) 
And you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce 
sense enough to keep your mouth shut. Were 
you too joined against me? But I'll defeat all 
your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, 
since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it 
would be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you 
please, instead of running away with your spark, 
prepare this very moment to run off with me. 
Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I'll 
warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your 
horse, and guard us upon the way. Here, Thomas, 
Roger, Diggory ! I'll shew you, that I wish you • 
better than you do yourselves. [Exit. 

Miss Nev. So now I'm completely ruined. ' 

Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 

Iw Nev. What better could be expected from 
being connected with such a stupid fool, and 
after all the nods and signs I made him? 

Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own 
cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your 
business ! You were so nice and so busy with 
your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought 
you could never be making believe. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hast. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you 
have shewn my letter, and betrayed us. Was this 
well done, young gentleman? 

Tony. Here's another. Ask miss, there, who 
betrayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine. 

Enter Marlow. 

Mar. So, I have been finely used here among 
you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill- 
manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. 

Tony. Here's another. We shall have all 
Bedlam broke loose presently. 

Miss Nev. And there, sir, is the gentleman to 
whom we all owe every obligation. 

Mar. What can I say to him ? a mere boy, an 
idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. 

Hast. A poor contemptible booby, that would 
but disgrace correction. 

Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough 
to make himself merry with all our embarrass- 
ments. 

Hast. An insensible cub. 

Mar. Replete with tricks and mischief. 

Tony. Baw ! damme, but I'll fight yoa uotb, 
one after the other — with baskets. 






POEMS AND PLAYS. 



241 



Mar. As for him, he's below resentment. But 
your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an expla- 
nation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would 
not undeceive me. 

Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disap- 
pointments, is this a time for explanations? It 
is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. 

Mar. But, sir — 

Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your 
mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Be 
pacified. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. My mistress desires you'll get ready im- 
mediately, madam. The horses are putting to. 
Your hat and things are in the next room. We 
are to go thirty miles before morning. 

[Exit Servant. 

Miss Nev. Well, well ; I'll come presently. 

Mar. {To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, to 
assist in rendering me ridiculous ? To hang me 
out for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend 
upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 

Hast. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that 
subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to 
the care of another, sir? 

Miss Nev. Mr. Hastings — Mr. Marlow — why 
will you increase my distress by this groundless 
dispute ? I implore, I entreat you— 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is im- 
patient. [Exit Servant. 

Miss Nev. I come. Pray, be pacified. If I leave 
you thus, I shall die with apprehension. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The 
horses are waiting. [Exit Servant. 

Miss Nev. O, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a 
scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, 
I'm sure it would convert your resentment into 
pity. 

Mar. I'm so distracted with a variety of pas- 
sions, that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, 
madam. George, forgive me. You know my 
hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. 

Hast. The torture of my situation is my only 
excuse. 

Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have 
that esteem for me that I think — that I am sure 
you have, your constancy for three years will but 
increase the happiness of our future connexion. 
If— 

Mrs. Hard. {Within.) Miss Neville! Constance, 
why Constance I say ! 

Miss Nev. I'm coming ! Well, constancy. Re- 
member constancy is the word. [Exit. 

Hast. My heart! how can I support this? To 
be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 

Mar. {To Tony.) You see now, young gentle- 
man, the effects of your folly. What might be 
amusement to you, is here disappointment, and 
even distress. 

Tony. {From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it: 
it's here ! Your hands. Yours, and yours, my 
poor Sulky. My boots there, ho ! Meet me two 
hours hence, at the bottom of the garden ; and if 
you don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured 
fellow than you thought for, I'll give you leave 



to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into 
the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! 

[Exeunt. 



w ACT V. ' 

Enter Hastings and Servant. 

Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
drive off, you say? 

Serv. Yes, your honour. They went off in a 
post-coach, and the young 'squire went on horse- 
back. They're thirty miles off by this time. 

Hast. Then all my hopes are over ! 

Serv. Yes, sir. Old sir Charles is arrived. He 
and the old gentleman of the house have been 
laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. 
They are coming this way. .' [Exit. 

Hast. Then I must not be seen. So now to my 
fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. 
This is about the time. [Exit. 

Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle. 

Hard. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in 
which he sent forth his sublime commands ! 

Sir Char. And the reserve with which I suppose 
he treated all your advances. 

Hard. And yet he might have seen something 
in me above a common inn-keeper, too. 

Sir Char. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an 
uncommon innkeeper, ha! ha! ha! 

Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of 
any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this 
union of our families will make our personal 
friendships hereditary; and though my daughter s 
fortune is but small — 

Sir Char. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune 
to me ? My son is possessed of more than a com- 
petence already, and can want nothing but a good 
and virtuous girl to share his happiness and 
increase it. If they like each other, as you say 
they do — 

Hard. If, man! I tell you they do like each 
other. My daughter as good as told me so. 

Sir Char. But girls are apt to flatter themselves 
you know. 

Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest 
manner myself; and here he comes to put you 
out of your ifs, I warrant him. 

Enter Marlow. 

Mar. I come, sir, once more to ask pardon for 
my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my 
insolence without confusion. 

Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my 
daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never 
like you the worse for it. 

Mar. Sir, I shall be always proud of her appro- 
bation. 

Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. 
Marlow; if I am not deceived, you have some- 
thing more than approbation thereabouts. You 
take me ? 

Mar. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 

Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know 
what's what as well as you that are younger. I 
know what has passed between you; but mum. 

Mar. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between 
us but the most profound respect on my side and 



242 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



tne most distant reserve on hers. You don 
think, sir, that my impudence has been passed 
upon all the rest of the family? 

Hard. Impudence! No, I don't say that— not 
quite impudence— though girls like to be played 
with, and rumpled a little, too, sontetimes. But 
she has told no tales, I assure you. 

Mar. I never gave her the slightest cause. 

Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place 
well enough. But this is over acting, young gen- 
tleman. You maybe open. Your fatherland I 
will like you the better for it. 

Mar. May I die, sir, if I ever — 

Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as 
I'm sure you like her— 

Mar. Dear sir — I protest, sir — 

Hard. I see no reason why you should not be 
joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 

Mar. But hear me, sir — 

Hard. Your father approves the match, I ad- 
mire it, every moment's delay will be doing mis- 
chief, so — 

Mar. But why don't you hear me? By all 
that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle 
the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the 
most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We 
had but one interview, and that was formal, 
modest, and uninteresting. 

Hard. {Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
impudence is beyond bearing. 

Sir Char. And you never grasped her haud, or 
made any protestations? 

Mar. As heaven is my witness, I came down 
in obedience to your commands. I saw the lady 
without emotion, and parted without reluctance. 
I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, 
nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I 
suffer so many mortifications. [Exit. 

Sir Char. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity 
with which he parted. 

Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate in- 
trepidity of his assurance. 

Sir Char. I dare pledge my life and honour 
upon his truth. 

Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
stake my happiness upon her veracity 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
sincerely and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow 
made you any professions of love and affection ? 

Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir ! 
But since you require unreserved sincerity — I 
think he has. 

Hard. {To Sir Charles.) You see. 

Sir Char. And pray, madam, have you and my 
son had more than one interview? 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 

Hard. {To Sir Charles.) You see. 

Sir Char. But did he profess any attachment ? 

Miss Hard. A lasting one. 

Sir Char. Did he talk of love? 

Miss Hard. Much, sir. 

Sir Char. Amazing ! And all this formally ? 

Miss Hard. Formally. 

Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied ? 

Sir Char. And how did he behave, madam? 

Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do. 
Said some civil things of my face, talked much of 
his want of merit, and the greatness of mine; 
mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech , 
and ended with pretended rapture. 



Sir Char. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed ; 
I know his conversation among women to be 
modest and submissive. This forward, canting, 
ranting manner, by no means describes him, and 
I am confident he never sat for the picture. 

Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should con- 
vince you to your face of my sincerity ? If you 
and my papa, in about half an hour, will place 
yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him 
declare his passion to me in person. 

Sir Char. Agreed. And if I find him what you 
describe, all my happiness in him must have an 
end. [Exit. 

Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I 
describe — I fear my happiness must never have a 
beginning. [Exeunt. 

Scene changes to the back of the Garden. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hast. What an idiot am I to wait here for a 
fellow, who probably takes a delight in mortifying 
me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll 
wait no longer. What do I see? It is he! and 
perhaps with news of my Constance. 

Enter Tony, booted and spattered. 

Hast. My honest 'squire! I now find you a 
man of your word. This looks like friendship. 

Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend 
you have in the world, if you knew but all. This 
riding by night, by-the-by, is cursedly tiresome. 
It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage- 
coach. 

Hast But how? where did you leave your 
fellow-travellers? Are they in safety? are they 
housed? 

Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours artd 
a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts 
have smoked for it; rabbit me! but I'd rather 
ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with such 
varmint. 

Hast. Well, but where have you left the ladies I 
I die with impatience. 

Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave 
them but where I found them? 

Hast. This is a riddle. 

Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes 
round the house, and round the house, and never 
touches the house? 

Hast. I'm still astray. 

Tony. Why that's it, mun. I have led them 
astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough 
within five miles of the place but they can tell the 
taste of. 

Hast. Ha! ha! ha! I understand; you took 
them in a round, while they supposed themselves 
going forward, and so you have at last brought 
them home again. 

Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
Feather-bed-lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. 
I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up- 
and-down-hill. I then introduced them to the 
gibbet on Heavy-tree-heath ; and from that, with a 
circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse- 
pond at the bottom of the garden. 

Hast. But no accident, I hope? 

Tony. No, no ; only mother is confoundedly 
frightened. She thinks herseif forty miles off. 
She's sick of the journey, and the cattle can scarce 
crawl. So, if your own horses be ready, you may 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



243 



■whip off witn cousin, and I'll be bound that no 
soul here can budge a foot to follow you. 

Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful? 

Tony. Ay , now it's dear friend; noble 'squire! 
Just now, it wa3 all idiot, cub, and run me 
through the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I 
say. After we take a knock in this part of the 
country, we kiss and be friends. But if you had 
run me through the guts, then I should be dead, 
and you might go kiss the hangman. 

Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten 
to relieve Miss Neville: if you keep the old lady 
employed, I promise to take care of the young 
one. [Exit Hast. 

Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. 
She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the 
waist like a mermaid. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed ! Shook ! Bat- 
tered to death! I shall never survive it. That 
last jolt that laid us against the quickset hedge, 
has done my business. 

Tony. Alack, mamma ! it was all your own 
fault. You would be for running away by night, 
without knowing one inch of the way. 

Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. I 
never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, 
stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last 
to lose our way ! Whereabouts do you think we 
are, Tony? 

Tony. By my guess, we should come upon 
Crackskull-common, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hard. O lud ! O lud ! the most notorious 
spot in all the country. We only want a robbery 
to make a complete night on't. 

Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don't be afraid. 
Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and 
the other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. 
Is that a man that's galloping behind us? No> it's 
only a tree. Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. 

Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat 
moving behind the thicket? 

Mrs. Hard. Oh, death ! 

Tony. No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, 
mamma ; don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
coming towards us. Ah! I'm sure on't. If he 
perceives us, we are undone. 

Tony. {Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's un- 
lucky, come to take one of his night walks. {To 
her.) Ah! it's a highwayman with pistols as long 
as my arm. A damned ill-looking fellow ! 

Mrs. Hard. Good heaven defend us ! he ap- 
proaches. 

Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 
leave me to manage him. If there be any dan- 
ger, I'll cough and cry hem. When I cough, be 
sure to keep close. 

[Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the 
back scene. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people 
in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did 
not expect you so soon back. Are your mother 
and her charge in safety? 

Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. 
Hem. 



Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Ah death ! I find 
there's danger. 

Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's 
too much, my youngster. 

Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make 
short journeys, as they say. Hem. 

Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Sure, he'll do the 
dear boy no harm. 

Hard. But I heard a voice here; I should be 
glad to know from whence it came. 

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I 
was saying that forty miles in four hours was 
very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. 
Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in 
the air. We'll go in, if you please. Hem. 

Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did 
not answer yourself. I'm certain I heard two 
voices, and am resolved {raising his voice) to find 
the other out. 

Mrs. Hard. {From behi?id.) Oh! he's coming to 
find me out. Oh! 

Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you? 
Hem, I'll lay down my life for the truth — hem— 
I'll tell you all, sir. {Detaining him.) 

Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist 
on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. 

Mrs. Hard. {Running forward from behind.) O 
lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, my darling ! 
Here, good gentleman, whet your rage itpon me 
Take my money, my life, but spare that young 
gentleman; spare my child, if you have any 
mercy. 

Hard. My wife! as I'm a Christian. From 
whence can she come? or what does she mean? 

Mrs. Hard. {Kneeling.) Take compassion on 
us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, 
our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. 
We will never bring you to justice, indeed we 
won't, good Mr. Highwayman. 

Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses, 
What, Dorothy, don't you know me? 

Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My 
fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could 
have expected to meet you here, in this fright- 
ful place, so far from home? What has brought 
you to follow us ? 

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits ? So far from home, when you are within 
forty yards of your own door ! ( To him. ) This is 
one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. 
{To her.) Don't you know the gate and the 
mulberry -tree ; and don't you remember the horse- 
pond, my dear? 

Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in 
it. {To Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless 
varlet, I owe all this — I'll teach you to abuse your 
mother I will. 

Tony. Ecod, all the parish says you have spoiled 
me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 

Mrs. Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. {Follows him 
off the stage.) 

Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. 

[Exit. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
Hast. My dear Constance, why will you delibe- 
rate thus? If we delay a moment, all is lost for 
ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall 
soon be out of the reach of her malignity. 

Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirits are 

so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I 

P 



244 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WOPJCS. 



am unable to face any new danger. Two or three 
years' patience will at last crown us with happi- 
ness. 

Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- 
stancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date 
our happiness from this very moment. Perish 
fortune ! Love and content will increase what we 
possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me 
prevail ! 

Miss Nev. No, Mr. Hastings; no. Prudence 
once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its 
dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may 
be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repent- 
ance. I am resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's 
compassion and justice for redress. 

Hast. But though he had the will, he has not 
the power to relieve you. 

Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that 
I am resolved to rely. 

Hast. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, 
I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. 

Scene changes — Enter Sir. Charles and Miss 
Hardcastle. 

Sir Char. What a situation am I in! If what 
you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. 
If what he says be true, I shall then lose one, that, 
of all others, I most wished for a daughter. 

Miss Hard. I am proud of your approbation, 
and to show you I merit it, if you place yourselves 
as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declara- 
tion. But he comes. 

Sir Char. 111 to your father, and keep him to 
the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 



Enter Mamow. 

Mar. Though prepared for setting out, I come 
once more to take leave, nor did I, till this mo- 
ment, know the pain I feel in the separation. 

Miss Hard. (In her own natural manner.) I 
believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, 
which you can so easily remove. A day or two 
longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by 
showing the little value of what you now think 
proper to regret. 

Mar. (Aside.) This girl every moment im- 
proves upon me. (To her.) It must not be, 
madam, I have already trifled too long with my 
heart. My very pride begins to submit to my 
passion. The disparity of education and fortune, 
the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my 
equals, begin to lose their weight ; and nothing 
can restore me to myself, but this painful effort of 
resolution. 

Miss Hard. Then go, sir; I'll urge nothing 
more to detain you. Though my family be as 
good as her's you came down to visit, and my 
education, I hope, not inferior, what are these 
advantages without equal affluence? I must re- 
main contented with the slight approbation of 
imputed merit ; I must have only the mockery of 
your addresses, while all your serious aims are 
fixed on fortune. 

Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles, front 
behind. 

Sir Char. Here, behind this screen. 



Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I'll engage my 
Kate covers him with confusion at last. 

Mar. By heavens! madam, fortune was ever 
my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first 
caught my eye; for who could see that without 
emotion. But every moment that I converse 
with you, steals in some new grace, heightens the 
picture, and gives it stronger expression. What 
at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears re- 
fined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, 
now strikes me as the result of courageous inno- 
cence, and conscious virtue. 

Sir Char. What can it mean? He amazes me! 

Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 

Mar. I am now determined to stay, madam, 
and I have too good an opinion of my father's 
discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his ap- 
probation. 

jiffs* Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot 
detain you. Do you think I could suffer a con- 
nexion in which there is the smallest room for 
repentance ? Do you think I would take the mean 
advantage of a transient passion to load you with 
confusion? Do you think I could ever relish that 
happiness which was acquired by lessening yours? 

Mar. By all that's good, I can have no happiness 
but what's in your power to grant me! Nor shall 
I ever feel repentance, but in not having seen your 
merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your 
wishes; and though you should persist to shun 
me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone 
for the levity of my past conduct. 

3Iiss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. 
As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indif- 
ference. I might have given an hour or two to 
levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I 
could ever submit to a connexion where 1 must 
appear mercenary and you imprudent? Do you 
think I could ever catch at the confident addresses 
of a secure admirer ? 

Mar. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security? 
Does this look like confidence? No, madam, every 
moment that shows me your merit, only serves to 
increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let 
me continue — 

Sir Char. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your 
indifference, your uninteresting conversation ? 

Hard. Your cold contempt; your formal inter- 
view ! What have you to say now ? 

Mar. That I'm all amazement! What can it 
mean? 

Hard. It means that you can say and unsay 
things at pleasure. That you can address a lady 
in private, and deny it in public ; that you have 
one story for us, and another for my daughter. 

Jtfar. Daughter !— this lady your daughter? 

Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My Kate; 
whose else should she be ? 

Mar. Oh, the devil ! 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, 
squinting lady, you were pleased to take me for; 
(curtsying) she that you addressed as the mild, 
modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, 
forward agreeable Rattle, of the ladies' club ; ha! 
ha! ha! 

jlfar. Zounds, there's nqbearing this; it's worse 
than death! 

Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, 
will you give' us leave to address you? As the 
faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, 
that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; 



POEMS AND PLAYS. 



245 



or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up 
with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buck- 
skin, till three in the morning ? ha! ha! ha! 

Mar. Oh, curse on my noisy head. I never 
attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not 
taken down ! I must be gone. 

Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall 
not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced 
to find it. You shall not stir, I tell you. I know 
she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? 
We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 

[They retire, she tormenting him, to the back 
scene. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony. 

Mrs. Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them 
go, I care not. 

Hard. Who gone ? 

Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentle- 
man, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came 
down with our modest visitor here. 

Sir Char. Who, my honest George Hastings ? 
As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not 
have made a more prudent choice. 

Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud 
of the connexion. 

Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away the 
lady, he has not taken her fortune : that remains 
in this family to console us for her loss. 

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so 
mercenary ? 

Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 

Hard. But you know, if your son, when of age, 
refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is 
then at her own disposal. 

Mrs. Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has 
not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Mrs. Hard. {Aside.) What, returned so soon! 1 
begin not to like it. 

Hast. (To Hardcastle.) For my late attempt to 
fly off with your niece, let my present confusion 
be my punishment. We are now come back, to 
appeal from your justice to your humanity. By 
her father's consent I first paid her my addresses, 
and our passions were first founded in duty. 

Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged 
to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In 
an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my 
fortune to secure my choice. But I'm now reco- 
vered from the delusion, and hope from your 
tenderness, what is denied me from a nearer con- 
nexion 

Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ; this is all but the 
whining end of a modern novel. 

Hard. Be it what it will, I am glad they're 
come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, 
Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand, whom 
I now offer you ? 

Tony. What signifies my refusing. You know 
I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. 

Hard. While I thought concealing your age, 
boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, 
I concurred with your mother's desire to keep it 
secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong 
use, I must now declare you have been of age 
these three months. 

Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father? 

Hard. Above three months. 

Tony. Then you'll see the first use 111 make of 



my liberty. (Taking Miss Neville's hand.) Wit- 
ness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony 
Lumpkin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you, 
Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for 
my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville 
may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin 
is his own man again. 

Sir Char. O brave 'squire 1 
Hast. My worthy friend ! 
Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring ! 
Mar. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
cerely ! And, could I prevail upon my little tyrant 
here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest 
man alive, if you would return me the favour. 

Hast. (To Miss Hardcastle.) Come, madam, 
you are now driven to the very last scene of all 
your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm 
sure he loves you, and you must and shall have 
him. 

Hard. (Joining their hands.) And I say so too. 
And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as 
she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever re- 
pent your bargain. So now to supper. To-mor- 
row we shall gather all the poor of the parish 
about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be 
crowned with a merry morning: so, boy, take 
her; and as you have been mistaken in the mis- 
tress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken 
in the wife. [Exeunt omnes. 



EPILOGUE. 
BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 



SPOKEN BV MBS. BD1KMT, ITt THE CHARACTER OP 
MISS HARDCASTLE. 



Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, 
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, 
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, 
As I have conquered him to conquer you : 
And let me say, for all your resolution, 
That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
Our life is all a play, composed to please ; 
4 We have our exits and our entrances.' 
The first act shows the simple country maid, 
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; 
Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action, 
4 1 hopes as how to give you satisfaction.' 
Her second act displays a livelier scene — 
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, 
Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the 

waiters. 
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she 

soars, 
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs : 



246 



goldsmith's miscellaneuos works. 



On squires and cits she there displays her arts, 
And oa the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts— 
And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
Even common-councilmen forget to eat. 
The fourth act shows her wedded to the squire, 
And madam now begins to hold it higher; 
Pretends to taste, at operas cries Caro; 
And quits her Nancy Dawson, for Che Faro : 
Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride, 



Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside; 
Ogles and leers with artificial skill, 
Till, having lost in age the power to kill- 
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at s'padille. 
Such, through our lives the eventful history — 
The fifth and last act still remains for me : 
The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. 



ESSAYS AND MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 




ESSAY I. 
I remember to have read in some philosopher 
(I believe in Tom Brown's wo:ks) that, let a 
man's character, sentiments, or complexion be 
what they will, he can find company in London 
to match them. If he be splenetic, he may 
every day meet companions on the seats in St. 
James's Park, with whose groans he may mix 
his own, and pathetically talk of the weather. 
If he be passionate he may vent his rage among 
the old orators at Slaughter's coffee-house, and 
damn the nation because it keeps him from 
starving. If he be phlegmatic, he may sit in 
silence at the Hum-drum Club in Ivy-lane ; and, 
if actually mad, he may find very good company 
in Moorfields, either at Bedlam or the Foundry, 
ready to cultivate a nearer acquaintance. 

But, although such as have a knowledge of the 
town may easily class themselves with tempers 
congenial to their own, a countryman who 
comes to live in London finds nothing more dif- 
ficult. With regard to myself, none ever tried 
with more assiduity, or came off with such indif- 
ferent success. I spent a whole season in the search, 
during which time my name has been enrolled 
in societies, lodges, convocations, and meetings 
without number. To some I was introduced by 
a friend, to others invited by an advertisement ; 
to these I introduced myself, and to those I 
changed my name to gain admittance. In short, 
no coquette was ever more solicitous to match 
her ribbons to her complexion, than I to suit my 
club to my temper, for I was too obstinate to 
conform to it. 

The first club I entered upon coming to town, 
was that of the Choice Spirits. The name was 



entirely suited to my taste ; I % was a lover of 
mirth, good-humour, and even sometimes of 
fun, from my childhood. 

As no other passport was requisite but the 
payment of two shillings at the door, I intro- 
duced myself without farther ceremony to the 
members, who were already assembled, and had 
for some time begun upon business. The Grand, 
with a mallet in his hand, presided at the head of 
the table. I could not avoid, upon my entrance, 
making use of all my skill in physiognomy, in 
order to discover that superiority of genius in 
men who had taken a title so superior to the 
rest of mankind. I expected to see the lines of 
every face marked with strong thinking; but, 
though I had some skill in this science, I could 
for my life discover nothing but a pert simper, 
fat, or profound stupidity 

My speculations were soon interrupted by the 
Grand, who had knocked down Mr. Spriggins 
for a song. I was, upon this, whispered by one 
of the company who sat next me, that I should 
now see something touched off to a nicety, for 
Mr. Spriggins was going to give us mad Tom in 
all his glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavoured to ex- 
cuse himself; for, as he was to act a madman 
and a king, it was impossible to go through the 
part properly without a crown and chains. His 
excuses were over-ruled by a great majority, and 
with much vociferation. The president ordered 
up the jack-chain, and, instead of a crown, our 
performer covered his brows with an inverted 
Jordan. After he had rattled his chain and 
shaken his head to the great delight of the whole 
company, he began his song. As I have heard 
few young fellows offer to sing in company that 
did not expose themselves, it was no great dis- 
appointment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among 
the number; however, not to seem an odd fish, 
I rose from my seat in rapture, cried out Bravo ! 
Encore ! and slapped the table as loud as any of 
the rest. 

The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly 
pleased with my taste and the ardour of my appro- 
bation ; and whispering, told me that I had suffered 
an immense loss ; for, had I come a few minutes 
sooner, I might have heard Gee-ho Dobbin sung in 
a tip-top manner by the pimple-nosed spirit at the 
president's right elbow ; but he was evaporated 
before I came. 

As I was expressing my uneasiness at this dis- 
appointment, I found the attention of the com- 



ESSAYS. 



274 



pany employed upon a fat figure, who, with a 
voice more rough than the Staffordshire giant's, 
was giving us the ' Softly sweet, in Lydian 
measure,' of Alexander's Feast. After a short 
pause of admiration, to this succeeded a Welsh 
dialogue, with the humours of Teague and Taffy ; 
after that came an Old Jackson, with a story 
between every stanza ; next was sung the Dust- 
cart, and then Solomon's Song. The glass began 
now to circulate pretty freely ; those who were 
silent when sober would now be heard in their 
turn; every man had his song, and he saw no 
reason why he should not be heard as well as 
any of the rest ; one begged to be heard while he 
gave Death and the Lady in high taste ; another 
sung to a plate which he kept trundling on the 
edges ; nothing was now heard but singing ; 
voice rose above voice, and the whole became 
one universal shout, when the landlord came to 
acquaint the company that the reckoning was 
drunk out. Rabelais calls the moments in which 
a reckoning is mentioned the most melancholy of 
our lives ; never was so much noise so quickly 
quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration of 
our landlord : Drunk out .' was echoed in a tone 
of discontent round the table : Drunk out al- 
ready! that was very odd! that so much punch 
could be drunk out already ! impossible ! The 
landlord, however, seeming resolved not to re- 
treat from his first assurances, the company was 
dissolved, and a president chosen for the night 



A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining 
some time after of the entertainment I have been 
describing, proposed to bring me to the club that 
he frequented ; which, he fancied, would suit the 
gravity of my temper exactly. ' We have at the 
Muzzy Club,' says he, « no riotous mirth nor 
awkward ribaldry ; no confusion or bawling ; 
all is conducted with wisdom and decency ; be- 
sides, some of our members are worth forty 
thousand pounds : men of prudence and fore- 
sight every one of them : these are the proper 
acquaintance, and to such I will to-night intro- 
duce you.' I was charmed at the proposal: to 
be acquainted with men worth forty thousand 
pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, 
were offers that threw me into rapture. At 
seven o'clock I was accordingly introduced by my 
friend, not indeed to the company, for though I 
made my best bow, they seemed insensible of my 
approach, but to the table at which they were 
sitting. Upon my entering the room, I could 
not avoid feeling a secret veneration from the 
solemnity of the scene before me ; the members 
kept a profound silence, each with a pipe in his 
mouth and a pewter pot in his hand, and with 
faces that might easily be construed into absolute 
f wisdom. Happy society, thought I to myself, 
where the members think before they speak, deliver 
nothing rashly, but convey their thoughts to each 
other pregnant with meaning, and matured by 
reflection. 

In this pleasing speculation I continued a full 
half hour, expecting each moment that somebody 
would begin to open his mouth ; every time the 
pipe was laid down I expected it was to speak; 
but it was only to spit. At length, resolving to 



break the charm myself, and overcome their ex- 
treme diffidence, for to this I imputed their si- 
lence ; I rubbed my hands, and looking as wise 
as possible, observed that the nights began to 
grow a little coolish at this time of the year. 
This, as it was directed to none of the company 
in particular, none thought himself obliged to 
answer ; wherefore I continued still to rub my 
hands and look wise. My next effort was addressed 
to a gentleman who sat next me ; to whom I 
observed, that the beer was extremely good ; my 
neighbour made no reply, but by a large puff of 
tobacco smoke. 

I now began to be uneasy in this dumb so- 
ciety, till one of them a little relieved me by 
observing, that bread had not risen these three 
weeks. • Ah !' says another, still keeping the 
pipe in his mouth, ' that puts me in mind of a 
pleasant story about that— hem— very well ; you 
must know — but, before I begin — sir, my service 
to you — where was I V 

My next club goes by the name of the Harmo- 
nica! Society; probably from that love of order 
and friendship which every person commends in 
institutions of this nature. The landlord was him- 
self the founder, the money spent is fourpence 
each ; and they sometimes whip for a double 
reckoning. To this club few recommendations are 
requisite, except the introductory fourpence and my 
landlord's good word, which, as be gains by it, he 
never refuses. 

We all here talked and behaved as every body 
else usually does on his club-night; we discussed 
the topic of the day, drank each other's health, 
snuffed the candles with our fingers, and filled 
our pipes from the same plate of tobacco. The 
company saluted each other in the common 
manner. Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Curry- 
comb-maker had not caught cold going home 
the last club-night ; and he returned the com- 
pliment by hoping that young Master Bellows- 
mender had got well again of the chin-cough. 
Dr. Twist told us a story of a parliament-man 
with whom he was intimately acquainted ; while 
the bug-man, at the same time, was telling a 
better story of a noble lord with whom he could 
do any thing. A gentleman in a black wig and 
leather breeches, at the other end of the table, 
was engaged in a long narrative of the ghost in 
Cock-lane ; he had read it in the papers of the 
day, and was telling it to some that sat next 
him, who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibdins 
was disputing on the old subject of religion with 
a Jew pedlar, over the table, while the president 
in vain knocked down Mr. Leathersides for a 
song. Besides the combination of these voices, 
which I could hear altogether, and which formed 
an upper part of the concert, there were several 
others playing under parts by themselves, and 
endeavouring to fasten on some luckless neigh- 
bour's ear, who was himself bent upon the same 
design against some other. 

We have often heard of the speech of a corpo- 
ration, and this induced me to transcribe a 
speech of this club, taken in short-hand, word 
for word, as it was spoken by every member of 
the company. It may be necessary to observe, 
that the man who told of the ghost, had the 



248 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



loudest voice, and the longest story to tell, so 
that his continuing narrative filled every chasm 
in the conversation. 

' So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving 
three loud raps at the bed-post' — ' Says my lord 
to me, my dear Smokeum, you know there is no 
man upon the face of the earth for whom I have 
so high' — ' A damnable false heretical opinion of 
all sound doctrine and good learning ; for I'll tell 
it aloud, and spare not, that'— ' Silence for a 
song ; Mr Leathersides for a song' — ' As I was 
walking upon the highway, I met a young damsel* 
— ' Then what brings you here? says the parson 
to the ghost' — ' Sanconiathon, ManetliOj and 
Berosus' — ' The whole way from Islington turn- 
pike to Doghouse-bar'— 'Dam' — 'As for Abel 
Drugger, sir, he's damn'd low in it ; my 'prentice 
boy has mce of the gentleman than he'— 'For 
murder will out one time or another; and none 
but a ghost, you know, gentlemen, can' — 'Dam 
me if I don't ; for my friend, whom you know, 
gentlemen, and who is a parliament-man, a man 
of consequence, a dear, honest creature, to be 
sure; we were laughing last night at' — 'Death 
and damnation upon all his posterity by simply 
barely tasting'— ' Sour grapes, as the fox said 
once when he could not reach them; and I'll, I'll 
tell you a story about that, that will make you 
burst your sides with laughing; a fox once' — 
'Will nobody listen to the song' — 'As I was 
walking upon the highway, I met a young damsel 
both buxom and gay' — 'No ghost, gentlemen, 
can be murdered ; nor did I ever hear but of one 
ghost killed in all my life, and that was stabbed 
in the belly with a'— 'My blood and soul if £1 
don't' — ' Mr. Bellows-mender, I have the honour 
of drinking your very good health' — ' Blast me if 
I do' — dam — blood — bugs — fire — whizz — blid — 
tit — rat— trip. The rest all riot, nonsense, and 
rapid confusion. 

Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I 
could here find ample room for declamation ; 
but, alas! I have been a fool myself; and why 
should I be angry with them for being something 
so natural to every child of humanity. 

Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, 
the following night, to a club of fashion. Oa 
taking my place. I found the conversation suffi- 
ciently easy, and tolerably good-natured ; for my 
lord and Sir Paul were not yet arrived. I now 
thought myself completely fitted, and resolved to 
seek no farther, determined to take up my re- 
sidence here for the winter; while my temper be- 
gan to open insensibly to the cheei fulness I saw 
diffused on every face in the room : but the delu- 
sion soon vanished, when the waiter came to ap- 
prize us that his lordship and Sir Paul were just 
arrived. 

From this moment all our felicity was at an 
end ; our new guests bustled into the room, and 
took their seats at the head of the table. Adieu 
now all confidence; every . creature strove who 
should most recommend himself to our members 
of distinction. Each seemed quite regardless of 
pleasing any but our new guests ; and what before 
•wore the appearance of friendship, was now 
turned into rivalry. 

Yet Ijiould not observe that, amidst all this 



flattery and obsequious attention, our great men 
took any notice of the rest of the company. Their 
whole discourse was addressed to each other. Sir 
Paul told his lordship a long story of Moravia the 
Jew ; and his lordship gave Sir Paul a very long 
account of his new method of managing silk- 
worms ; he led Lim, and consequently the rest of 
the company, through all the stages of feeding, 
sunning, and hatching ; with an episode on mul- 
berry trees, a digression upon grass seeds, and a 
long parenthesis about his new postilion. In this 
manner we travelled on, wishing every story to be 
the last ; but all in vain ; 

' Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose.' 

The last club in which I was enrolled a mem- 
ber, was a society of moral philosophers, as they 
called themselves, who assembled twice a-week, 
in order to show the absurdity of the present 
mode of religion, and establish a new one in its 
stead. 

I found the members very warmly disputing 
when I arrived ; not indeed about religion or 
ethics, but about who had neglected to lay down 
his preliminary sixper e upon entering the room. 
The president swore that he had laid his own down, 
and so swore all the company. 

During this contest, I had an opportunity of 
observing the laws, and also the members of the 
society. The president, who had been, as I was 
told, lately a bankrupt, was a tall, pale figure, 
with a long black wig ; the next to him was 
dressed in a large white wig, and a black cravat ; 
a third, by the brownness of his complexion, 
seemed a native of Jamaica ; and a fourth, by his 
hue, appeared to be a blacksmith. But their rules 
will give the most just idea of their learning and 
principles. 

I. We, being a laudable society of moral philoso- 
phers, intends to dispute twice a-week about reli- 
gion and priestcraft. Leaving behind us old wives' 
tales, and following good learning and sound sense ; 
and if so be, that any other persons has a mind to 
be of the society, they shall be entitled so to do, 
upon paying the sum of three shillings, to be spent 
by the company in punch. 

II. That no member get drunk before nine of the 
clock, upon pain of forfeiting threepence, to be 
spent by the company in punch. 

III. That as members are sometimes apt to go 
away without paying, every person shall pay six- 
pence upon his entering the room ; and all disputes 
shall be settled by a majority ; and all fines shall be 
paid in punch. 

IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to 
the president, in order to buy books of learning 
for the good of the society ; the president has 
already put himself to a good deal of expense in 
buying books for the club ; particularly, the works 
of Tully, Socrates, and Cicero, which he will soon 
read to the society. 

V. All them who brings a new argument against 
religion, and who, being a philosopher, and a man 
of learning, as the rest of us is, shall be admitted to 
the freedom of the society, upon paying sixpence 
only, to be spent in punch. 

VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary 



ESSAYS. 



249 



meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish 
name in the newspapers. 

Saunders Mac Wild, president. 

Anthony Blewtt, vice-president. 
his y, mark. 

William Turpin, secretary. 



ESSAY II. 



Wa essayists, who are allowed but one subject 
at a time, are by no means so fortunate as the 
writers of magazines, who write upon several. If 
a magaziner be dull upon the Spanish war, he 
soon has us up again with the ghost in Cock- 
lane ; if the reader begins to doze upon that, he is 
quickly roused by an eastern tale ; tales prepare 
us for poetry, and poetry for the meteorological 
history of the weather. It is the life and soul of a 
magazine never to be long dull upon one subject ; 
and the reader, like the sailor's horse, has at least 
the comfortable refreshment of having the spur 
often changed. 

As I see no reason why they should carry off all 
the rewards of genius, I have some thoughts for the 
future of making this essay a magazine in minia- 
ture : i shall hop from subject to subject, and if 
properly encouraged, I intend in time to adorn my 
feuilU volant with pictures. But to begin in the 
usual form with 

▲ MODEST ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC. 

The public has been so often imposed upon by 
the unperforming promises of others, .that it is 
with the utmost modesty we assure them of our 
inviolable design of giving the very best collection 
that ever astonished society. The public we 
honour and regard, and therefore to instruct and 
entertain them is our highest ambition, wnh 
labours calculated as well for the head as the 
heart. If four extraordinary pages of letter-press 
be any recommendation of our wit, we may at 
least boast the honour of vindicating our own 
abilities. To say more in favour of the Infernal 
Magazine, would be unworthy the public ; to say 
less, would be injurious to ourselves. As we have 
no interested motives for this undertaking, being 
a society of gentlemen of distinction, we disdain to 
eat or write like hirelings ; we are all gentlemen, 
resolved to sell our sixpenny magazine merely for 
our own amusement. 

Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. 

DEDICATION TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OP ALL 
PATRONS, THE TRIPOLINB AMBASSADOR. 

May it please your Excellency, 

As your taste in the fine arts is universally 
allowed and admired, permit the authors of the 
Infernal Magazine to lay the following sheets 
humbly at your Excellency's toe ; and should our 
labours ever have the happiness of one day adorn- 
ing the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the in- 
fluence wherewith we are honoured, shall ever be 
retained wsth the most warm ardour by, 

May it please your Excellency, 

Your most devoted humble servants. 
The authors of the Infernal Magazine. 



A SPEECH SPOKEN BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSO- 
PHER, TO PERSUADE HIS CLUB AT CATEATON 
TO DECLARE WAR AGAINST SPAIN. 

My honest friends and brother politicians ; I 
perceive that the intended war with Spain makes 
many of you uneasy. Yesterday, as we were 
told, the stocks rose, and you were glad ; to-day 
they fall, and you are again miserable. But my 
dear friends, what is the rising or the falling of 
the stocks to us, who have no money? Let 
Nathan Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or 
sorry for this ; but, my good Mr. Bellows-mender, 
what is all this to you or me ? You must mend 
broken belows, and I write bad prose, as long as 
we live, whether we like a Spanish war or not. 
Believe me, my honest friends, whatever you may 
talk of liberty and your own reason, both that 
liberty and reason are conditionally resigned by 
every poor man in every society ; and, as we are 
born to work, so others are born to watch over 
us, while we are working. In the name of com- 
mon sense, then, my good friend, let the great 
keep watch over us, and let us mind our business, 
and perhaps we may at last get money ourselves, 
and set beggars to work in our turn. I have a 
Latin sentence, that is worth its weight in gold, 
and which I shall beg leave to translate for your 
instruction. An author, called Lilly's Grammar, 
finely observes, that ' JEs in prassenti perfectum 
format ;' that is, « Ready money makes a perfect 
man.* Let us then get ready money; and let 
them that will, spend theirs by going to war with 
Spain. 

RULES FOR BEHAVIOUR, DRAWN UP BY THE 
INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER. 

If you be a rich man, you may enter the room 
with three loud hems, march deliberately up to 
the chimney, and turn your back to the fire. If 
you be a poor man, I would advise you to shrink 
into the room as fast as you can, and place your- 
self as usual upon the corner of a chair in a re- 
mote corner. 

When you are desired to sing in company, I 
would advise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand 
to one, but that you torment us with affectation 
or a bad voice. 

If you be young, and live with an old man, I 
would advise you not to like gravy; I was disin- 
herited myself for liking gravy. 

Don't laugh much in public ; the spectators 
that are not so merry as you, will hate you, 
either because they envy your happiness, or fancy 
themselves the subject of your mirth. 

RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL. TRANSLATED 
FROM THE LATIN OF DAN^EUS DE SORTIA- 
RIIS, A WRITER CONTEMPORARY WITH CAL- 
VTN, AND ONE OF THE REFORMERS OF OUR 
CHURCH. 

The person who desires to raise the Devil, is to 
sacrifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own 
property, to Beelzebub. He is to swear an eternal 
obedience, and then to receive a mark in some 
unseen place, either under the eyelid, or in the 
roof of the mouth, inflicted by the devil himself. 
Upon this he has power given him over three 



250 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



sprits; one for earth, another for air, and a third 
for the sea. Upon certain times the devil holds 
an assembly of magicians, in which each is to 
give an account of what evil he has done, and 
what he wished to do. At this assembly he ap- 
pears in the shape of an old man, or often like a 
goat with large horns. They upon this occasion 
renew their vows of obedience ; and then form a 
grand dance in honour of their false deitv. The 
devil instructs them in every method of injuring 
mankind, in gathering poisons, and of riding 
upon occasion through the air. He shows them 
the whole method, upon examination, of giving 
evasive answers; his spirits have power to assume 
the form of angels of light, and there is but one 
method of detecting them, viz. to ask them in 
proper form, what method is the most certain to 
propagate the faith over all the world ? To this 
they are not permitted by the Superior Power to 
make a false reply, nor are they willing to give 
the true one, wherefore they continue silent, and 
are thus detected. 




'• Mf Mtipped, contemplated, and fancied lie saw something awful 
and divine iu his atpect." 



ESSAY III. 
Where Tauris lifts its head above the storm, 
and presents nothing to the sight of the distant 
traveller, but a prospect of nodding rocks, falling 
torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature ; 
on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, 
secluded from society, and detesting the ways of 
men, lived Asem the man-hater. 

Asem had spent his youth with men; had 
shared in their amusements ; and had been taught 
to love his fellow-creatures with the most ardent 
affection ; but, from the tenderness of his disposi- 
tion, he exhausted all his fortune in relieving the 
wants of the distressed. The petitioner never 
sued in vain ; the weary traveller never passed his 
door ; he only desisted from doing good wltan he 
nad no longer the power of relieving. 



For a fortune thus spent in benevolence, he ex- 
pected a grateful return from those he hud 
formerly relieved, and made his application with 
confidence of redress ; the ungrateful world soon 
grew weary of his importunity ; for pity is but a 
short-lived passion. He soon, therefore, began to 
view mankind in a very different light from that 
in which he had before beheld them ; he perceived 
& -thousand vices he had never before suspected to 
exist; wherever he turned, ingratitude, dissimu- 
lation, and treachery, contributed to increase his 
detestation of them. Resolved therefore to con- 
tinue no longer in a world which he hated, and 
which repaid his detestation with contempt, he 
retired to this region of sterility, in order to brood 
over his resentment in solitude, and converse with 
the only honest heart he knew; namely, with his 
own. 

A cave was his only shelter from the incle- 
mency of the weather ; fruits gathered with diffi- 
culty from the mountain's side, his only food; 
and his drink was fetched with danger and toil 
from the head-long torrent. In this manner he 
lived, sequestered from society, passing the hours 
in meditation, and sometimes exulting that he 
was able to live independently of his fellow- 
creatures. 

At the foot of the mountain, an extensive lake 
displayed its glassy bosom ; reflecting, on its broad 
surface the impending horrors of the mountain; 
To this capacious mirror he would sometimes de- 
scend, and, reclining on its steep banks, cast an 
eager look on the smooth expanse that lay before 
him. ' How beautiful,' he often cried, ' is na- 
ture 1 how lovely, even in her wildest scenes*: 
How finely contrasted is the level plain that lies 
beneath me, with yon awful pile that hides its 
tremendous heads in clouds ! But the beauty of 
theses scenes is no way comparable with their 
utility ; from hence a hundred rivers are sup- 
plied, which distribute health and verdure to the 
various countries through which they flow. Every 
part of the universe is beautiful, just, and wise ; 
but man, vile man, is a solecism in nature; the 
only monster in the creation. Tempests and 
whirlwinds have their use ; but vicious ungrateful 
man U a blot iu the fair page of universal beauty. 
Why was I born of that detested species, whose 
vices are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the 
Divine Creator ! Were men entirely free from 
vice, all would be uniformity, harmony, and 
order. A world of moral rectitude, should be the 
result of a perfectly moral agent. Why, why 
then, O Alia ! must I be thus confined in dark- 
ness, doubt, and despair !* 

Just as he uttered the word despair, he was 
going to plunge into the lake beneath him, at 
once to satisfy his doubts, and put a period to his 
anxiety ; when he percieved a most majestic 
being walking on the surface of the water, and 
approaching the bank on which he stood. So 
unexpected an object at once checked his pur- 
pose ; he stopped, contemplated, and fancied he 
saw something awful and divine in his aspect. 

'Son of Adam,' cried the genius, 'stop thy 
rash purpose ; the father of the faithful has seen 
thy justice, thy integrity, thy miseries, and has 
sent me to afford and administer relief. Give 
me thine hand, and follow, without trembling, 



ESSAYS. 



251 



wherever I shall lead ; in me behold the genius 
of conviction, kept by the great prophet, to turn 
from their errors those who go astray, not from 
curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow 
me, and be wise.' 

Asem immediately descended upon the lake, 
and his guide conducted him along the surface of 
the water ; till, coming near the centre of the 
lake, they both began to sink ; the waters closed 
over their heads ; they descended several hundred 
fathoms, till Asem, just ready to give up his life 
as inevitably lost, found himself with his celes- 
tial guide in another world, at the bottom of the 
waters, where human foot had never trod before. 
His astonishment was beyond description, when 
he saw a sun like that he had left, a serene sky 
over his head, and blooming verdure under his 
feet. 

* I plainly perceive your amazement,' said the 
genius ; ' but suspend it for a while. This world 
was formed by Alia, at the request, and under 
the inspection of our great prophet ; who once 
entertained the same doubts which filled your 
mind when I found you, and from the conse- 
quences of which you were so lately rescued. 
The rational inhabitants of this world are formed 
agreeably to your own ideas ; they are absolutely 
without vice. In other respects it resembles 
your earth ; but differs from it in being wholly 
inhabited by men who never do wrong. If you 
find this world more agreeable than that you so 
lately left, you have free permission to spend the 
remainder of your days in it ; but permit me for 
some time to attend you, that I may silence 
your doubts, and make you better acquainted 
with your company and your new habitation.' 

'A world without vice! Rational beings with- 
out immorality!' cried Asem, in a rapture; 'I 
thank thee, O Alia, who hast at length heard 
my petitions ; this, this indeed will produce 
happiness, extasy, and ease. O for an immor- 
tality to spend it among men who are incapable 
of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and a 
thousand other crimes, that render society mise- 
rable.' 

• Cease thine acclamations,' replied the genius. 
' Look around thee ; reflect on every object and 
action before us, and communicate to me the 
result of thine observations. Lead wherever you 
think proper, I shall be your attendant and in- 
structor. Asem and his companion travelled on 
in silence for some time, the former being en- 
tirely lost in astonishment; but, at last, recover- 
ing his former serenity, he could not help ob- 
serving that the face of the country bore a near 
resemblance to that he had left, except that this 
subterranean world still seemed to retain its 
primeval wildness. 

' Here,' cried Asem, ' I perceive animals of 
prey, and others that seem only designed for 
their subsistence ; it is the very same in the 
world over our heads. But had I been per- 
mitted to instruct our prophet, I would have 
removed this defect, and formed no voracious 
or destructive animals, which only prey on the 
other parts of the creation.' — 'Your tenderness 
for inferior animals is, I find, remarkable,' said 
the genius, smiling. ■ But, with regard to meaner 



creatures, this world exactly resembles the other ; 
and, indeed, for obvious reasons : for the earth 
can support a more considerable number of ani- 
mals, by their thus becoming food for each other, 
than if they had lived entirely on her vegetable 
productions. So that animals of different na- 
tures thus formed, instead of lessening their 
multitude, subsist in the greatest number possi- 
ble. But let us hasten on to the inhabited coun- 
try before us, and see what that offers for 
instruction.' 

They soon gained the utmost verge of the 
forest, and entered the country inhabited by men 
without vice ; and Asem anticipated in the idea 
the rational delight he hoped to experience in 
such an innocent society. But they had scarce 
left the confines of the wood, when they beheld 
one of the inhabitants flying with hasty steps, 
and terror in his countenance, from an army of 
squirrels that closely pursued him. 'Heavens!' 
cried Asem, ' why does he fly ? What can he 
fear from animals so contemptible ?' He had 
scarce spoken when he perceived two dogs pur- 
suing another of the human species, who, with 
equal terror and haste, attempted to avoid them. 
'This,' cried Asem to his guide, 'is truly sur- 
prising ; nor can I conceive the reason for so 
strange an action.' — 'Every species of animals,' 
replied the genius, * has of late grown very 
powerful in this country ; for the inhabitants, at 
first, thinking it unjust to use either fraud or 
force in destroying them, they have insensibly 
increased, and now frequently ravage their harm- 
less frontiers.' — 'But they should have been de- 
stroyed,' cried Asem, ' you see the consequence 
of such neglect.' — 'Where is then that tender- 
ness you so lately expressed for subordinate ani- 
mals?' replied the genius smiling, 'you seem to 
have forgot that branch of justice.'— 'I must 
acknowledge my mistake,' returned Asem, ' I am 
now convinced that we must be guilty of tyranny 
and injustice to the brute creation, if we would 
enjoy the world ourselves. But let us no longer 
observe the duty of man to these irrational crea- 
tures, but survey their connections with one 
another.' 

As they walked farther up the country, the 
more he was surprised to see no vestiges of 
handsome houses, no cities, nor any mark of 
elegant design. His conductor perceiving his 
surprise, observed, that the inhabitants of this 
new world were perfectly content with their an- 
cient simplicity ; each had a house, which, though 
homely, was sufficient to lodge his little family ; 
they were too good to build houses, which could 
only increase their own pride, and the envy of 
the spectator; what they built was for conve- 
nience, and not for show. * At least, then,' said 
Asem, ' they have neither architects, painters, 
nor statuaries, in their society ; but these are 
idle arts, and may be spared. However, before 
I spend much more time here, you should have 
my thanks for introducing me into the society of 
some of their wisest men ; there is scarce any 
pleasure to me equal to a refined conversa- 
tion ; there is nothing of which I am so ena- 
moured as wisdom.' — 'Wisdom,' replied his in- 
structor, ' how ridiculous ! we have no wisdom 



252 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



here, for we have no occasion for it; true wis- 
dom is only a knowledge of our own duty, and 
the duty of others to us ; but of what use is such 
wisdom where each intuitively performs what is 
right in himself, and expects the same from 
others? If by wisdom you should mean vain 
curiosity, and empty speculation, as such plea- 
sures have their origin in vanity, luxury, or 
avarice, we are too good to pursue them.' — 'All 
this may be right,' says Asem, ' but methinks I 
observe a solitary disposition prevail among the 
people ; each family keeps separately within their 
own precincts, without society, or without inter- 
course.' — ' That, indeed, is true,' replied the 
other, * here is no established society ; nor 
should there be any; all societies are made 
either through fear or friendship; the people we 
are among are too good to fear each other, and 
there are no motives to private friendship, where 
all are equally meritorious.' — 'Well then,' said 
the sceptic, ' as I am to spend my time here, if I 
am to have neither the fine arts, nor wisdom, 
nor friendship in such a world, I should be glad, 
at least, of an easy companion, who may tell me 
his thoughts, and to whom I may communicate 
mine.' — 'And to what purpose should either do 
this,' says the genius ; ' flattery or curiosity are 
vicious motives, and never allowed of here ; and 
wisdom is out of the question.' 

« Still, however,' said Asem, ' the inhabitants 
must be happy; each is contented with his own 
possessions, nor avariciously endeavours to heap 
up more than is necessary for his own subsist- 
ence; each has therefore leisure for pitying those 
that stand in need of his compassion.' He had 
scarce spoken when his ears were assaulted with 
the lamentations of a wretch who sat by tha 
way-side, and, in the most deplorable distress, 
seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. 
Asem immediately ran to his relief, and found 
him in the last stage of consumption. ' Strange,* 
cried the Son of Adam, « that men who are free 
from vice should thus suffer so much misery 
without relief!' — 'Be not surprised,' said the 
wretch who was dying ; * would it not be the 
utmost injustice for beings, who have only just 
sufficient to support themselves, and are content 
with a bare subsistence, to take it from their 
own mouths to put it into mine? They never 
are possessed of a single meal more than is 
necessary; and what is barely necessary cannot 
be dispensed with.' — 'They should have been 
supplied with more than is necessary,' cried 
Asem ; ' and yet I contradict my own opinion 
but a moment .before ; all is doubt, perplexity, 
and confusion. Even the want of ingratitude is 
no . virtue here, since they never received a 
favour. They have, however, another excellence 
yet behind; the love of their country is still, I 
hope, one of their darling virtues.' — 'Peace, 
Asem/ replied the guardian, with a countenance 
not less severe than beautiful, 'nor forfeit all 
thy pretensions to wisdom ; the same selfish 
motives by which we prefer our own interest to 
that of others, induce us to regard our country 
preferably to that of another. Nothing less than 
universal benevolence is free from vice, and that 
you see is practised here.' — ' Strange !' cries the 



disappointed pilgrim, in an agony of distress, 
' what sort of a world am I now introduced to ? 
There is scarce a single virtue, but that of tem- 
perance, which they practise ; and in that they 
are no way superior to the brute creation. There 
is scarce an amusement which they enjoy ; forti- 
tude, liberality, friendship, wisdom, conversation, 
and love of country, all are virtues entirely un- 
known here ; thus, it seems, that to be unac- 
quainted with vice is not to know virtue. Take 
me, O my genius, back to that very world which 
I have despised ; a world which has Alia for its 
contriver, is much more wisely formed than that 
which has been projected by Mahomet. Ingra- 
titude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer, 
for perhaps I have deserved them. When I ar- 
raigned the wisdom of Providence, I only showed 
my own ignorance ; henceforth let me keep from 
vice myself, and pity it in others.' 

He had scarce ended, when the genius assuming 
an air of terrible complacency, called all his 
thunders around him, and vanished in a whirl- 
wind. Asem, astonished at the terror of the 
scene, looked for his imaginary world; when, 
casting his eyes around, he perceived himself in 
the very situation, and in the very place, where 
he first began to repine and despair; his right 
foot had been just advanced to take the final 
plunge, nor had it been yet withdrawn; so in- 
stantly did Providence strike the series of truths 
just imprinted on his soul. He now departed 
from the water-side in tranquillity, and, leaving 
Ms horrid mansion, travelled to Segestan, his 
native city; where he diligently applied himself 
to commerce, and put in practice that wisdom he 
had learned in solitude. The frugality of a few 
years soon produced opulence ; the number of his 
domestics increased; his friends came to him 
from every part of the city ; nor did he receive 
them with disdain; and a youth of misery was 
concluded with an old age of elegance, affluence, 
and ease. 



ESSAY IV. 



It is allowed on all hands, that our English 
divines receive a more liberal education, and im- 
prove that education, by frequent study, more 
than any others of this reverend profession in 
Europe. In general also, it may be observed, 
that a greater degree of gentility is affixed to the 
character of a student in England than else- 
where ; by which means our clergy have an op- 
portunity of seeing better company while young, 
and of sooner wearing off those prejudices which 
they are apt to imbibe even in the best regulated 
universities, and which may be justly termed the 
vulgar errors of the wise. 

Yet, with all these advantages, it is very ob- 
vious, that the clergy are no where so little 
thought of by the populace as here ; and, though 
our divines are foremost with respect to abilities, 
yet they are found last in the effects of their 
ministry; the vulgar, in general, appearing no 
way impressed with a sense of religious duty. I 
am not for whining at the depravity of the 



times, or for endeavouring to paint a prospect 
more gloomy than in nature ; but certain it is, no 
person who has travelled will contradict me, 
when I aver, that the lower orders of mankind, 
in other countries, testify, on every occasion, the 
profoundest awe «f religion ; while in England 
they are scarcely awakened into a sense of its 
duties, even in circumstances of the greatest dis- 
tress. 

This dissolute and fearless conduct, foreigners 
are apt to attribute to climate and constitution ; 
may not the vulgar, being pretty much neglected 
in our exhortations from the pulpit, be a conspir- 
ing cause? Our divines seldom stoop to their 
mean capacities; and they who want instruction 
most, find least in our religious assemblies. 

Whatever may become of the higher orders of 
mankind, who are generally possessed of colla- 
teral motives to virtue, the vulgar should be par- 
ticularly regarded, whose behaviour in civil life is 
totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. Those 
who constitute the basis of the great fabric of 
society, should be particularly regarded ; for, in 
policy, as in architecture, ruin is most fatal when 
it begins from the bottom. 

Men of real sense and understanding prefer a 
prudent mediocrity to a precarious popularity ; 
and, fearing to outdo their duty, leave it half 
done. Their discourses from the pulpit are ge- 
nerally dry, methodical, and unaffecting ; delivered 
with the most insipid calmness; insomuch, that, 
should the peaceful preacher lift his head over the 
cushion, which alone he seems to address, he 
might discover his audience, instead of being 
awakened to remorse, actually sleeping over his 
methodical and laboured composition. 

This method of preaching is, however, by some 
called an address to reason, and not to the pas- 
sions ; this is styled the making of converts from 
conviction : but such are indifferently acquainted 
with human nature, who are not sensible, that 
men seldom reason about their debaucheries till 
they are committed ; reason is but a weak anta- 
gonist when headlong passion dictates. In all such 
cases we should arm one passion against another ; 
it is with the human mind as in nature, from the 
mixture of two opposites the result is most fre- 
quently neutral tranquillity. Those who attempt 
to reason us out of our follies, begin at the wrong 
end, since the attempt naturally presupposes us 
capable of reason ; but to be made capable of this 
is one great point of the cure. 

There are but few talents requisite to become a 
popular preacher, for the people are easily pleased, 
if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to 
please them ; the meanest qualifications will work 
tlsis effect, if the preacher sincerely sets about it. 
Perhaps little, indeed very little more is required 
than sincerity and assurance ; and a becoming 
sincerity is always certain of producing a becom- 
ing assurance. * Si vis me Jlere, dolendum est 
primum tibi ipsi,' is so trite a quotation, that it 
almost demands an apology to repeat it; yet, 
though all allow the justice of the remark, how 
few do we find put it in practice; our orators, 
with the most faulty bashfulness, seem impressed 
rather with an awe of their audience, than with a 
just respect for the truths they are about to de- 



25\ 



liver ; they, of all professions, seem the most 
bashful, who have the greatest right to glory in 
their commission. 

The French preachers generally assume all that 
dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors 
from Christ ; the English divines, like erroneous 
envoys, seem more solicitous not to offend the 
court to which they are sent, than to drive home 
the interests of their employer. The bishop of 
Massillon, in the first sermon he ever preached, 
found the whole audience, upon his getting into 
the pulpit, in a disposition no way favourable to 
his intentions; their nods, whispers, or drowsy 
behaviour, showed him that there was no great 
profit to be expected from his sowing in a soil so 
improper ; however, he soon changed the disposi- 
tion of his audience by his manner of beginning ; 
'If,' says he, 'a cause, the most important that 
could be conceived, were to be tried at the bar 
before qualified judges; if this cause interested 
ourselves in particular; if the eyes of the whole 
kingdom were fixed upon the event ; if the most 
eminent counsel were employed on both sides ; 
and if we had heard from our infancy of this yet 
undetermined trial ; would you not all sit with 
due attention, and warm expectation, to the plead- 
ings on each side? Would not all your hopes and 
fears be hinged upon the final decision? And 
yet, let me tell you, you have this moment a cause 
of much greater importance before you ; a cause 
where not one nation, but all the world, are 
spectators ; tried, not before a fallible tribunal, but 
the awful throne of heaven, where not your tem- 
poral and transitory interests are the subject of 
debate, but your eternal happiness or misery, 
where the cause is still undetermined ; but, per- 
haps, the very moment I am speaking, may fix 
the irrevocable decree that shall last for ever ; and 
yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit 
with patience to hear the tidings of your own sal- 
vation ; I plead the cause of heaven, and yet I am 
scarcely attended to,' &c. 

The style, the abruptness of a beginning like 
this, in the closet would appear absurd; but in 
the pulpit it is attended with the most lasting 
impressions ; that style which, in the closet, might 
justly be called flimsy, seems the true mode of 
eloquence here. I never read a fine composition 
under the title of a sermon, that I do not think 
the author has miscalled his piece ; for the talents 
to be used in writing well, entirely differ from 
those of speaking well. The qualifications for 
speaking, as has been already observed, are easily 
acquired ; they are accomplishments which may 
be taken up by every candidate who will be at the 
pains of stooping. Impressed with a sense of the 
truths he is about to deliver, a preacher disregards 
the applause or the contempt of his audience, and 
he insensibly assumes a just and manly sincerity. 
With this talent alone we see what crowds are 
drawn around enthusiasts, even destitute of com- 
mon sense ; what numbers converted to Chris- 
tianity. Folly may sometimes set an example for 
wisdom to practise, and our regular divines may 
borrow instruction even from Methodists, who go 
their circuits, and preach prizes among the po- 
pulace. Even Whitefield may be placed as a 
model to some of our young divines; let them 



254 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Join to their own good sense bis earnest manner 
of delivery. 

It will be perhaps objected, that by confining 
the excellences of a preacher to proper assur- 
ance, earnestness, and openness of style, I make 
the qualifications too trifling for estimation ; 
there will be something called oratory brought up 
on this occasion ; action, attitude, grace, elocu- 
tion, may be repeated as absolutely necessary to 
complete the character; but let us not be de- 
ceived; common sense is seldom swayed by fine 
toiies, musical periods, just attitudes, or the dis- 
play of a white handkerchief ; oratorical beha- 
viour, except in very able hands indeed, generally 
Binks into awkward and paltry affectation. 

It must be observed, however, that these rules 
are calculated only for him who would instruct 
the vulgar, who stand in most need of instruc- 
tion ; to address philosophers, and to obtain the 
character of a polite preacher among the polite — 
a much more useless, though more sought -for 
character — requires a different method of pro- 
ceeding. All I shall observe on this head is, to 
entreat the polemic divine, in his controversy 
with the deists, to act rather offensively than to 
defend; to push home the grounds of his belief, 
and the impracticability of theirs, rather than to 
spend time in solving the objections of every op- 
ponent. * It is ten to one,' says a late writer on 
the art of war, ' but that the assailant who at- 
tacks the enemy in his trenches, is always victo- 
rious.' 

Yet, upon the whole, our clergy might employ 
themselves more to the benefit of society, by de- 
clining all .controversy, than by exhibiting even 
the profoundest skill in polemic disputes ; their 
contests with each other often turn on speculative 
trifles : and their disputes with the deists are al- 
most at an end, since they can have no more 
than victory, and that they are already possessed 
of, as their antagonists have been driven into a 
confession of the necessity of revelation, or an 
open avowal of atheism. To continue the dispute 
longer would only endanger it ; the sceptic is ever 
expert at puzzling a debate which he finds him- 
self unable to continue, • and, like an Olympic 
boxer, generally fights best when undermost.' 




ESSAY V. 

The improvements we make in mental acquire- 
ments, only render us each day more sensible of 
the defects of our constitution : with this in view, 
therefore, let us often recur to the amusements of 
youth ; endeavour to forget age aud wisdom, and, 
as far as innocence goes, be as much a boy as the 
Dest of them. 

Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy 
of the age ; but, in my opinion, every age is the 
same. This I am sure of, that man in every 
season, is a poor fretful being, with no othei 
means to escape the calamities of the times, but 
by endeavouring to forget them; for, if he at- 
tempts to resist, he is certainly undone. If I feel 
poverty and pain, I am not so hardy as to quarrel 
with the executioner, even while under correc- 
tion : I find myself no way disposed to make fine 
speeches, while I am making wry faces. In a 
word, let me drink when the fit is on, to make 
me insensible ; and drink when it is over, for joy 
that I feel pain no longer. 

The character of old Falstaff; even with all his 
faults, gives me more consolation than the most 
studied efforts of wisdom : I here behold an 
agreeable old fellow, <t>rgetting age, and showing 
me the way to be young at sixty-five. Sure I am 
well able to be as merry, thougli not so comical, 
as he. — Is it not in my power to have, though 
not so much wit, at least as much vivacity? — 
Age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone. — I give 
you to the winds. Let's have t'other bottle : 
here's to the memory of Shakspeare, Falstaff, and 
all the merry men of Eastcheap. 

Such were the reflections that naturally arose 
while I sat at the Boar's Head tavern, still kept 
at Eastcheap. Here, by a pleasant fire, in the 
very room where old Sir John Falstaff cracked 
his jokes, in the very chair tfhich was sometimes 
honoured by prince Henry, and sometimes pol- 
luted by his immoral merry companions, I sat 
and ruminated on the follies of youth ; wished to 
be young again ; but was resolved to make the 
best of life while it lasted, and now and then 
compared past and present times together. I 
considered myself as the only living representa- 
tive of the old knight, and transported my imagi- 
nation back to the times when the prince and he 
pave life to the revel, and made even debauchery 
not disgusting. The room also conspired to 
throw my reflections back into antiquity : the oak 
loor, the Gothic windows, and the ponderous 



ESSAYS. 



255 



chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth of 
time ; the watchman had gone twelve ; my com- 
panions had all stolen off, and none now re- 
mained with me but the landlord. From Lira I 
could have wished to know the history of a tavern 
that had such a long succession of customers : I 
could not help thinking that an account of this 
kind would be a pleasing contrast of the manners 
of different ages ; but my landlord could give me 
no information. He continued to doze and sot, 
and tell a tedious story, as most other landlords 
usually do; and, though he said nothing, yet was 
never silent : one good joke followed another 
good joke ; and the best joke of all was generally 
begun towards the end of a bottle. I found at 
last, however, his wine and his conversation 
operate by degrees ; he insensibly began to alter 
his appearance. His cravat seemed quilled into a 
ruff, and his breeches swelled out into a fardin- 
gale. I now fancied him changing sexes : and, as 
my eyes began to close in slumber, I imagined 
my fat landlord actually converted into as fat a 
landlady. However, sleep made but few changes 
in my situation: the tavern, the apartment, and 
the table, continued as before ; nothing suffered 
mutation but my host, who was fairly altered into 
a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be dame 
Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the days of 
Sir John; and the liquor we were drinking, 
which seemed converted into sack and sugar. 

* My dear Mrs. Quickly,' cried I, (for I knew 
her perfectly well at first sight,) « I am heartily 
glad to see you. How have you left Falstaff, 
Pistol, and the rest of our friends below stairs? 
Brave and hearty, I hope ?'— ' In good sooth,' re- 
plied she, • he did deserve to live for ever ; but he 
maketh foul work on't where he hath flitted. 
Queen Proserpine and he have quarrelled for his 
attempting a rape upon her divinity ; and were it 
not that she still had bowels of compassion, it- 
more than seems probable he might have been 
now sprawling in Tartarus.' 

I now found that spirits still preserve the frail- 
ties of the flesh ; and that, according to the laws 
of criticism and dreaming, ghosts have been 
known to be guilty of even more than platonic 
affection ; wherefore, as I found her too much 
moved on such a topic to proceed, I was resolved 
to change the subject ; and desiring she would 
pledge me in a bumper, observed, with a sigh, 
that our sack was nothing now to what it was in 
former days. * Ah, Mrs. Quickly, those were 
merry times when you drew sack for Prince 
Henry: men were twice as strong, and twice as 
wise, and much braver, and ten thousand times 
more charitable than now. Those were the times ! 
The battle of Agincourt was a victory indeed! 
Ever since that we have only been degenerating; 
and I have lived to see the day when drinking is 
no longer fashionable. When men wear clean 
shirts, and women show their necks and arms, all 
are degenerated, Mrs Quickly ; and we shall pro- 
bably, in another century, be frittered away into 
beaux or monkeys. Had you been on earth to 
see what I have seen, it would congeal all .the 
blood in your body (your soul, I mean.) Why, 
our very nobility now have the intolerable arro- 
gance, in spite of what is every day remonstrated 



from the press ; our very nobility, I say, have the 
assurance to frequent assemblies, and presume to 
be as merry as the vulgar. See my very friends 
have scarce manhood enough to sit to it till 
eleven ; and I only am left to make a night on't. 
Pr'ythee do me the favour to console me a little 
for their absence by the story of your own ad- 
ventures, or the history of the tavern where we 
are now sitting : I fancy the narrative may have 
something singular.' 

* Observe this apartment,' interrupted my com- 
panion ; * of neat device and excellent workman- 
ship — In this room I have lived, child, woman, 
and ghost, more than three hundred years; I am 
ordered by Pluto to keep an annual register of 
every transaction that passeth here; and I have 
whilom compiled three hundred tomes, which eft- 
soons may be submitted to thy regards. ' — * None 
of your whiloms or eftsoons, Mrs. Quickly, if you 
please,' I replied ; ■ I know you can talk every 
whit as well as I can ; for, as you have lived here 
so long, it is but natural to suppose you should 
learn the conversation of the company. Believe 
me, dame, at the best, you have neither too much 
sense, nor too much language to spare; so give 
me both as well as you can ; but first, my service 
to you; old women should water their clay a 
little now and then ; and now to your story.' 

1 The story of my own adventures,' replied the 
vision, 'is but short and unsatisfactory; for, be- 
lieve me, Mr. Rigmarole, believe me, a woman 
with a butt of sack at her elbow is never long- 
lived. Sir John's death afflicted me to such a 
degree, that I sincerely believe, to drown sorrow, 
I drank more liquor myself than I drew for my 
customers: my grief was sincere, and the saek 
was excellent. The prior of a neighbouring con- 
vent (for our priors then had as much power as a 
Middlesex justice now), he. I say, it was who gave 
me a license for keeping a disorderly house ; upon 
condition, that I should never make hard bar- 
gains with the clergy, that he should have a 
bottle of sack every morning, and the liberty of 
confessing which of my girls he thought proper 
in private every night. I had continued for 
several years to pay this tribute; and he, it must 
be confessed, continued as rigorously to exact it. 
I grew old insensibly; my customers continued, 
however, to compliment my looks while I was by, 
but I could hear them say I was wearing, when 
my back was turned. The prior, however, still 
was constant, and so were half his convent ; but 
one fatal morning he missed the usual beverage ; 
for I had incautiously drunk over night the last 
bottle myself. What will you have on't. The 
very next day Doll Tearsheet and I were sent to 
the house of correction, and accused of keeping a 
low bawdy-house. In short, we were so well pu- 
rified there with stripes, mortification, and penance, 
that we were afterwards utterly unfit for worldly 
conversation ; though sack would have killed me, 
had I stuck to it, yet I soon died for want of a 
drop of something comfortable, and fairly left my 
body to the care of the beadle. 

■ Such is my own history ; but that of the 
tavern, where I have ever since been stationed, 
affords greater variety. In the history of this, 
which is one of the oldest in London, you may 



256 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



view the different manners, pleasures, and follies 
of men at different periods. You will find man- 
kind neither better nor worse now than formerly ; 
the vices of an uncivilized people are generally 
more detestable, though not so frequent as those 
in polite society. It is the same luxury which 
formerly stuffed your aldermen with plum-por- 
ridge, and now crams him with turtle. It is the 
same low ambition that formerly induced a cour- 
tier to give up his religion to please his king, and 
now persuades him to give up his conscience to 
please his minister. It is the same vanity that 
formerly stained our ladies' cheeks and necks 
with woad, and now paints them with carmine. 
. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered his hair 
with red earth, like brick-dust, in order to ap- 
pear frightful ; your modern Briton cuts his hair 
on the crown, and plasters it with hogs-lard and 
flour ; and this to make him look killing. It is 
the same vanity, the same folly, and the same 
vice, only appearing different, as viewed through 
the glass of fashiqn. In a word, all mankind are 
a — * 

' Sure the woman is dreaming,' interrupted I. 
'None of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you 
love me ; they only give me the spleen. Tell me 
your history at once. I love stories, but hate 
reasoning.' 

•If you please, then, sir,' returned my com- 
panion, ' I'll read you an abstract, which I made 
of the three hundred volumes I mentioned just 
now. 

« My body was no sooner laid in the dust, than 
the prior and several of his convent came to 
purify the tavern from the pollutions with which 
they said I had filled it. Masses were said in 
every room, relics were exposed upon every piece 
of furniture, and the whole house washed with a 
deluge of holy water. My habitation was soon 
converted into a monastery ; instead of customers 
now applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were 
crowded with images, relics, saints, whores, and 
friars. Instead of being a scene of occasional de- 
bauchery, it was now filled with continual lewd- 
ness. The prior led the fashion, and the whole 
convent imitated his pious example. Matrons 
came here to confess their sins, and to commit 
new. Virgins came hither who seldom went 
virgins away. Nor was this a convent peculiarly 
wicked ; every convent at that period was equally 
fond of pleasure, and gave a boundless loose to 
appetite. The laws allowed it; each priest had 
a right to a favoured companion, and a power of 
discarding her as often as he pleased. The 
laity grumbled, quarrelled with their wives and 
daughters, hated their confessors, and maintained 
them in opulence and ease. These, these were 
happy times, Mr. Rigmarole ; these were times of 
piety, bravery, and simplicity !' — ' Not so very 
happy neither, good madam; pretty much like 
the present ; those that labour, starve ; and those 
that do nothing, wear fine clothes and live in 
luxury.' 

' In this manner the fathers lived, for some 
years, without molestation; they transgressed, 
confessed themselves to each other, and were for- 
given. One evening, however, our prior keeping 
a lady of distinction somewhat too long at confes- 



sion, her husband unexpectedly came in upon 
them, and testified all the indignation which was 
natural upon such an occasion. The prior assured 
the gentleman that it was the devil who had put 
it into his heart ; and the lady was very certain, 
that she was under the influence of magic, or she 
could never have behaved in so unfaithful a man- 
ner. The husband, however, was not to be put 
off by such evasions, but summoned both before 
the tribunal of justice. His proofs were flagrant, 
and he expected large damages. Such, indeed, 
he had a right to expect, were the tribunals of 
those days constituted in the same manner as 
they are now. The cause of the priest was to be 
tried before an assembly of priests ; and a layman 
was to expect redress only from their impartiality 
and candour. "What plea then do you think that 
the prior made to obviate this accusation ? He 
denied the fact, and challenged the plaintiff to 
try the merits of their cause by single combat. 
It was a little hard, you may be sure, upon the 
poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, 
but to be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; 
yet such was the justice of the times. The prior 
threw down his glove, and the injured husband 
was obliged to take it up, in token of his accept ■ 
ing the challenge. Upon this, the priest supplied 
his champion, for it was not lawful for the clergy 
to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, accord- 
ing to custom, were put in prison ; both ordered 
to fast and pray, every method being previously 
used to induce both to a confession of the truth. 
After a month's imprisonment, the hair of each 
was cut, the bodies anointed with oil, the field of 
battle appointed and guarded by soldiers, while 
his majesty presided over the whole in person. 
Both the champions were sworn not to seek 
victory either by fraud or magic. They prayed 
and confessed upon their knees ; and after these 
ceremonies, the rest was- left to the courage and 
conduct of the combatants. As the champion 
whom the prior had pitched upon, had fought six 
or eight times upon similar occasions, it was no 
way extraordinary to find him victorious in the 
present combat. In short, the husband was dis- 
comfited ; he was taken from the field of battle, 
stripped to his shirt, and after one of his legs was 
cut off. as justice ordained in such cases, he was 
hanged as a terror to future offenders. These, 
these were the times, Mr. Rigmarole! you see 
how much more just, wise, and valiant, our an- 
cestors were than us.' — 'I rather fancy, madam, 
that the times then were pretty much like our 
own ; where a multiplicity of laws give a judge as 
much power as a want of law ; since he is ever 
sure to find among the number some to counte- 
nance his partiality.' 

' Our convent, victorious over their enemies, 
now gave a loose to every demonstration of joy. 
The lady became a nun, the prior was made 
bishop, and three Wickliffites were burned in the 
illumination and fire-works that were made on 
the present occasion. Our convent now began to 
enjoy a very high degree of reputation. There 
was not one in London that had the character of 
hating heretics so much as ours. Ladies of the 
first distinction chose from our convent their 
confessors; in short, it flourished, and might have 



flourished to this hour, but for a fatal accident 
which terminated in its overthrow. The lady 
whom the prior had placed in a nunnery, and 
whom he continued to visit for some time with 
punctuality, began at last to perceive that she was 
quite forsaken. Secluded from conversation, as 
usual, she now entertained the visions of a de- 
votee ; found herself strangely disturbed ; but he- 
sitated in determining, whether she was possessed 
by an angel or demon. She was not long in sus- 
pense ; for, upon vomiting a large quantity of 
crooked pins, and finding the palms of her hands 
turned outwards, she quickly concluded that she 
was possessed by the devil. She soon lost en- 
tirely the use of speech ; and when she seemed to 
speak, every body that was present perceived that 
her voice was not her own, but that of the devil 
within her. In short, she was bewitched ; and 
all the difficulty lay in determining who it could 
be that bewitched her. The nuns and the monks 
all demanded the magician's name, but the devil 
made no reply ; for he knew they had no au- 
thority to ask questions. By the rules of witch- 
craft, when an evil spirit has taken possession, he 
may refuse to answer any questions asked him, 
unless they are put by a bishop, and to these he 
is obliged to reply. A bishop, therefore, was sent 
for, and now the whole secret came out: the 
devil reluctantly owned that lie was a servant of 
the prior ; that by his command he resided in his 
present habitation ; and that, without his com- 
mand, he was resolved to keep in possession. 
The bishop was an able exorcist ; he drove the 
devil out by force of mystical arms ; the prior 
was arraigned for witchcraft ; the witnesses were 
strong and numerous against them, not less than 
fourteen persons being by who heard the devil 
talk Latin. There was no resisting such a cloud 
of witnesses ; the prior was condemned ; and he 
who had assisted at so many burnings, was 
burned himself in turn. These were times, Mr. 
Rigmarole ; the people of those times were not 
infidels, as now, but sincere believers!' — 'Equally 
faulty with ourselves ; they believed what the 
devil was pleased to tell them ; and we seem re- 
solved, at last, to believe neither god nor devil.* 

* After such a stain upon the convent, it was 
not to be supposed it could subsist any longer ; 
the fathers were ordered to decamp, and the 
house was once again converted into a tavern. 
The king conferred it on one of his cast mis- 
tresses ; she was constituted landlady by royal 
authority; and as the tavern was in the neigh- 
bourhood of the court, and the mistress a very 
polite woman, it began to have more business 
than ever; and sometimes took not less than four 
shillings a day. 

* But perhaps you are desirous of knowing 
what were the peculiar qualifications of women 
of fashion at that period ; and in a description of 
the present landlady, you will have a tolerable idea 
of ail the rest. This lady was the daughter of a 

1 nobleman, and received such an education in the 
j country as became her quality, beauty, and great 
i expectations. She could make shifts and hose 

for herself and all the servants of the family, 
I when she was twelve years old. She knew the 

names of the four-and-twenty letters, so that it 



257 



was impossible to bewitch her ; and this was a 
greater piece of learning than any lady in the 
whole country could pretend to. She was always 
up early, and saw breakfast served in the great 
hall by six o'clock. At this scene of festivity, she 
generally improved good humour, by telling her 
dreams, relating stories of spirits, several of 
which she herself had seen ; and one of which 
she was reported to have killed with a black- 
hafted knife. From hence she usually went to 
make pastry in the larder, and here she was fol- 
lowed by her sweet-hearts, who were much 
helped on in conversation, by struggling with her 
for kisses. About ten, Miss generally went to 
play at hot-cockles and blind-man's buff in the 
parlour ; and when the young folks (for they 
seldom played at hot-cockles when grown old) 
were tired of such amusements, the gentlemen 
entertained Miss with the history of their grey- 
hounds, bear-baitings, and victories at cudgel- 
playing. If the weather was fine, they ran at the 
ring, shot at butts, while Miss held in her hand a 
ribbon, with which she adorned the conqueror. 
Her mental qualifications were exactly fitted to 
her external accomplishments. Before she was 
fifteen, she could tell the story of Jack the Giant 
Killer, could name every mountain that was in- 
habited by fairies, knew a witch at first sight, 
and could repeat four Latin prayers without a 
prompter. Her dress was perfectly fashionable ; 
her arms and her hair were completely covered; 
a monstrous ruff' was put round her neck, so that 
her head seemed like that of John the Baptist 
placed in a charger. In short, when completely 
equipped, her appearance was so very modest, 
that she discovered little more than her nose. 
These were the times, Mr. Rigmarole ; when 
every lady that had a good nose might set up for 
a beauty; when every woman that could tell 
stories, might be cried up for a wit.' — 'I am as 
much displeased at those dresses which conceal 
too much, as at those which discover too much : 
I am equally an enemy to a female dunce or a 
female pedant.' 

« You may be sure that Miss chose a husband 
with qualifications resembling her own ; she 
pitched upon a courtier, equally remarkable for 
hunting and drinking, who had given several 
proofs of his great virility among the daughters 
of his tenants and domestics. They fell in love 
at first sight, (for such was the gallantry of the 
times,) were married, came to court, and madam 
appeared with superior qualifications. The king 
was struck with her beauty. All property was at 
the king's command ; the husband was obliged to 
resign all pretensions in his wife to the sovereign, 
whom God had anointed to commit adultery 
where he thought proper. The king loved her 
for some time;- but, at length repenting of his 
misdeeds, and instigated by his father-confessor, 
from a principle of conscience removed her from 
his levee to the bar of his tavern, and took a new 
mistress in her stead. Let it not surprise you to 
behold the mistress of a king degraded to so 
humble an office. As the ladies had no mental 
accomplishments, a good face was enough to 
raise them to the royal couch ; and she who was 
this day a royal mistress, might the next, when 



258 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



her beauty palled upon enjoyment, be doomed to 
infamy and want.' 

• Under the care of this lady, the tavern grew 
into great reputation; the courtiers had not yet 
learned to game, but they paid it off by drinking ; 
drunkenness is ever the vice of a barbarous, and 
gaming of a luxurious age. They had not such 
frequent entertainments as the moderns have, but 
were more expensive and more luxurious in those 
they had. All their fooleries were more elaborate, 
and more admired by the great and the vulgar 
than now. A courtier has been known to spend 
his whole fortune at a single feast, a king to 
mortgage his dominions to furnish out the frip- 
pery of a tournament. There were certain days 
appointed for riot and debauchery, and to be 
sober at such times was reputed a crime. Kings 
themselves set the example; and I have seen 
inonarchs in this room drunk before the enter- 
tainment was half concluded. These were the 
times, sir, when kings kept mistresses, and got 
drunk in public ; they were too plain and simple 
in those happy times to hide their vices, and act 
the hypocrite, as now.' — 'Lord! Mrs. Quickly,' 
interrupting her, * I expected to have heard a 
story, and here you are going to tell me I know 
not what of time3 and vices; pr'ythee let me in- 
treat thee once more to wave reflections, and 
give thy history without deviation.* 

•No lady upon earth,' continued my vision- 
ary correspondent, 'knew how to put off her 
damaged wine or women with more art than she. 
When these grew flat, or those paltry, it was but 
changing the names; the wine became excellent, 
and the girls agreeable. She was also possessed 
of the engaging leer, the chuck under the chin, 
winked at a double-entendre, could nick the op- 
portunity of calling for something comfortable, 
and perfectly understood the discreet moments 
when to withdraw. The gallants of those times 
pretty much resembled the bloods of ours ; they 
were fond of pleasure, but quite ignorant of the 
art of refining upon it; thus a court-bawd of 
those times resembled the common low-lived 
harridan of a modern bagnio. Witness, ye powers 
of debauchery, how often I have been present at 
the various appearances of drunkenness, riot, 
guilt, and brutality. A tavern is the true picture 
of human infirmity ; in history we find only one 
side of the age exhibited to our view ; but in the 
accounts of a tavern we see every age equally ab- 
surd and equally vicious. 

' Upon this lady's decease the tavern was suc- 
cessively occupied by adventurers, bullies, pimps, 
and gamesters. Towards the conclusion of the 
reign of Henry VII. gaming was more universally 
practised in England than even now. Kings 
themselves have been known to play off, at 
Primeiro, not only all the money and jewels 
they could part with, but the very images in 
churches. The last Henry played away in this 
very room, not only the four great bells of St. 
Paul's cathedral, but the fine image of St. Paul 
which stood upon the top of the spire, to Sir 
Miles Partridge, who took them down the next 
day, and sold them by auction. Have you then 
any cause to regret being born in the times you 
now live? or do you still believe that human 



nature continues to run on declining every age? 
If we observe the actions of the busy part of 
mankind, your ancestors will be found infinitely 
more gross, servile, and even dishonest, than you. 
If, forsaking history, we only trace them in their 
hours of amusement and dissipation, we shall 
find them more sensual, more entirely devoted to 
pleasure, and infinitely more selfish. 

•The last hostess of note I find upon record 
was Jean Rouse. She was born among the lower 
ranks of the people; and, by frugality and ex- 
treme complaisance, contrived to acquire a mo- 
derate fortune ; this she might have enjoyed for 
many years, had she not unfortunately quarrelled 
with one of her neighbours, a woman who was in 
high repute for sanctity through the whole 
parish. In the times of which I speak, two 
women seldom quarreled, that one did not ac- 
cuse the other of witchcraft, and she who first 
contrived to vomit crooked pins was sure to 
come off victorious. The scandal of a modem 
tea-table differs widely from the scandal of former 
times ; the fascination of a lady's eyes at present, 
is regarded as a compliment; but if a lady 
formerly, should be accused of having witchcraft 
in her eyes, it were much better, both for her 
soul and body, that she had no eyes at all. 

' In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witch- 
craft, and, though she made the best defence she 
could, it was all to no purpose; she was taken 
from her own bar to the bar of the Old Bailey, 
condemned, and executed accordingly. These 
were times, indeed! when even women could not 
scold in safety. 

'.Since her time the tavern underwent several 
revolutions, according to the spirit of the times, 
or the dispositions of the reigning monarch. It 
was this day a brothel, and the next a conven- 
ticle for enthusiasts. It was one year noted for 
harbouring whigs, and the next infamous for a 
retreat to tories. Some years ago it was in high 
vogue, but at present it seems declining. This 
only may be remarked in general, that whenever 
taverns flourish most, the times are then most ex- 
travagant and luxurious.' — ' Lord ! Mrs. Quickly,' 
interrupted I, ' you have really deceived me ; I 
expected a romance, and here you have been this 
half hour giving me only a description of the 
spirit of the times ; if you have nothing but te- 
dious remarks to communicate, seek some other 
hearer; I am determined to hearken only to 
stories.' 

I had scarce concluded, when my eyes and 
ears seemed opened to my landlord, who had 
been all this Avhile giving me an account of the 
repairs he had made in the house ; and was now 
going into the story of the cracked glass in the 
dining-room. 



ESSAYS. 



aoy 



t^'':^ ■ 




! ; I gave it, and drew him out with 



ESSAY VI. 
I am fond of amusement in whatever company It 
is to be found ; and wit, though dressed in rags, 
is ever pleasing to me. I went some days ago to 
take a walk in St. James's Park, about the hour 
in which company leave it to go to dinner. 
There were but few in the walks, and those who 
stayed, seemed by their looks rather more willing 
to forget that they had an appetite than gain one. 
I sat down on one of the benches, at the other 
end of which was seated a man in very shabby 
clothes. 

We continued to groan, to hem, and to coughj 
as usual upon such occasions ; and, at last, ven- 
tured upon conversation. .' I beg pardon, sir,' 
cried I, ' but I think I have seen you before ; 
your face is familiar to me.'-' Yes, sir,' replied 
he. c I have a good familiar face, as my friends 
tell me. I am as well known in every town in 
England as the dromedary, or live crocodile. 
You must understand, sir, that I have been these 
sixteen years Merry Andrew to a puppet-show ; 
last Bartholomew fair my master and I quarrelled, 
beat each other, and parted ; he to sell his pup- 
pets to the pincushion-makers in Rosemary-lane, 
and I to starve in St. James's Park.' 

' I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appear- 
ance should labour under any difficulties.' — ' O, 
sir,' returned he, ' my appearance is very much 
at your service ; but, though I cannot boast of 
eating much, yet there are few that are merrier : 
if I had twenty thousand a year I should be very 
merry ; and, thank the fates, though not worth a 
groat, I am very merry still. If I have three- 
pence in my pocket, I never refuse to be my 
three-half-pence; and, if I have no money, I 
never scorn to be treated by any that are kind 
enough to pay my reckoning. What think you, 
sir, of a steak and a tankard 1 You shall treat 
me now, and I will treat you again when I find 
you in the park in love with eating, and without 
money to pay for a dinner.' 

As I never refuse a small expense for the sake 
of a merry companion, we instantly adjourned to 
a neighbouring alehouse, and, in a few moments, 
had a frothing tankard and a smoking steak 
spread on the table before us. It is impossible to 
express how much the sight of such good cheer 
improved my companion's vivacity. ' I like this 



dinner, sir,' says he, ' for three reasons : first, be- 
cause I am naturally fond of beef; secondly, 
Oecause 1 am hungry ; and thirdly and lastly, 
because I get it for nothing : no meat eats so sweet 
as that for which we do not pay.' 

He therefore now fell to, and his appetite 
seemed to correspond with his inclination. After 
dinner was over, he observed that the steak was 
tough; * and yet, sir,' returns he, ' bad as it was, 
it seemed a rump-steak to me. O the delights of 
poverty and a good appetite ! We beggars are 
the very fondlings of nature ; the rich she treats 
like an arrant stepmother ; they are pleased with 
nothing ; cut a steak from what part you will, 
and it is insupportably tough ; dress it up with 
pickles, and even pickles cannot procure them an 
appetite. But the whole creation is filled with 
good things for the beggar ; Calvert's butt out- 
tastes champaign, and Sedgeley's home-brewed 
excels tokay. Joy, joy, my blood, though our 
estates lie nowhere, we have fortunes wherever 
we go ! If an inundation sweeps away half the 
grounds of Cornwall, I am content ; I have no 
lands there : if the stocks sink, that gives me no 
aneasiness, I am no Jew.' The fellow's vivacity, 
joined to his poverty, I own, raised my curiosity 
to know something of his life and circumstances ; 
and I entreated that he would indulge my desire. 
* That I will, sir,' said he, * and welcome ; only 
let us drink to prevent our sleeping ; let us have 
another tankard while we are awake ; let us have 
another tankard ; for, ah, how charming a tankard 
looks when full ! 

' Y'ou must know, then, that I am very well 
descended ; my ancestors have made some noise 
in the world; for my mother cried oysters, and 
my father beat a drum: I am told we have even 
had some trumpeters in our family. Many a 
nobleman cannot shew so respectful a genealogy ; 
but that is neither here nor there. As I was 
their only child, my father designed to breed me 
up to his own employment, which was that of 
drummer to a puppet-show. Thus, the whole 
employment of my younger years was that of in- 
terpreter to Punch #nd King Solomon in all his 
glory. But, though my father was very fond of 
instructing me in beating all the marches and 
points of war, I made no very great progress, 
because I naturally had no ear for music; so, at 
the age of fifteen, I went and listed for a soldier. 
As I had ever hated beating a drum, so I soon 
found that I disliked carrying a musket also ; 
neither the one trade nor the other were to my 
taste, for I was by nature fond of being a gentle- 
man ; besides, I was obliged to obey my captain ; 
he has his will, I have mine, and you have yours : 
now I very reasonably concluded, that it was much 
more comfortable for a man to obey his own will 
than another's. 

4 The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me 
the spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; 
but, as I was tall and strong, my captain thanked 
me for my kind intention, and said, because he 
had a regard for me, we should not part. I 
wrote to my father a very dismal penitential 
letter, and desired that he would raise money to 
pay for my discharge ; but the good man was as 
fond of drinking as I was, (sir, my service to 
you,; and those who are fond of drinking never 
pay for other people's discharges; in short, he 
never answered my letter. What could be done ? 



260 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



If I have not money, said I to myself, to pay for 
my discharge, I must find an equivalent some 
other way ; and that must be by running away. 
I deserted, and that answered my purpose every 
bit as well as if I had bought my discharge. 

1 Well, I was now fairly rid of my military 
employment ; I sold my soldier's clothes, bought 
worse, and in order not to be overtaken, took the 
most unfrequented roads possible. One evening, 
as I was entering a village, I perceived a man, 
whom I afterwards found to be the curate of the 
parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, 
and almost smothered in the mud. He desired 
my assistance, I gave it, and drew him out with 
some difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble, 
and was going off; but I followed him home, for 
I loved always to have a man thank me at his 
own door. The curate asked a hundred ques- 
tions ; as whose son I was ; from whence I came, 
and whether I would be faithful? I answered 
him greatly to his satisfaction, and gave myself 
one of the best characters in the world for so- 
briety, (sir, I have the honour of drinking your 
health) discretion, and fidelity. To make a long 
story short, he wanted a servant, and hired me. 
With him I lived but two months; we did not 
much like each other ; I was fond of eating, and 
he gave nie but little to eat; I loved a pretty 
girl, and the old woman, my fellow-servant, was 
ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to 
starve me between them, I made a pious resolu- 
tion to prevent their committing murder •. I stole 
the eggs as soon as they were laid ; I emptied 
every unfinished bottle that I could lay my hands 
on ; whatever eatables came in my way was sure 
to disappear. In short, they found I would not 
do ; so I was discharged one morning, and paid 
three shillings and sixpence for two months' 
wages. 

' While my money was getting ready, I em- 
ployed myself in making preparations for my de- 
parture; two hens were hatching in an out- 
house, I went and took the eggs from habit, and, 
not to separate the parents from the children, I 
lodged hens and all in my knapsack. After this 
piece of frugality, I returned to receive my 
money, and, with my knapsack on my back, and 
a staff in my hand, I bade adieu, with tears in my 
eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far 
from the house when I heard behind me the cry 
of " Stop thief ! " but this only increased my des- 
patch ; it would have been foolish to stop, as I 
knew the voice could not be levelled at me. 
But hold, I think I passed those two months at 
the curate's without drinking ; come, the times 
are dry, and may this be my poison if ever I 
spent two more pious, stupid months in all my 
life. 

' Well, after travelling some days, whom 
should I light upon but a company of strolling 
players. The moment I saw them at a distance, 
my heart warmed to them; I had a sort of 
natural love for every thing of the vagabond 
order: they were employed in settling their 
baggage, which had been overturned in a narrow 
way ; I offered my assistance, which they ac- 
cepted : and we soon became so well acquainted, 
that they took m« as a servant. This was a 



paradise to me ; they sang, danced, drank, eat, 
and travelled, all at the same time. By the blood 
of the Mirabels, I thought I had never lived till 
then ; I grew as merry as a grig, and laughed at 
every word that was spoken. They liked me as 
much as I liked them ; I was a very good figure, 
as you may see ; and though I was poor, I was not 



4 1 love a straggling life above all things in the 
world; sometimes good, sometimes bad; to be 
warm to-day, and cold to-morrow ; to eat when 
Dne can get it, and drink when (the tankard is 
out) it stands before me. We arrived that even- 
ing at Tenterden, and took a large room at the 
Greyhound ; where we resolved to exhibit Romeo 
and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave 
and the garden scene. Romeo was to be per- 
formed by a gentleman from the theatre royal in 
Drury-lane ; Juliet by a lady who had never ap- 
peared on any stage before ; and I was to snuff 
the candles ; all excellent in our way. We had 
figures enough, but the difficulty was to dress 
them. The same coat that served Romeo, turned 
with the blue lining outwards, served for his 
friend Mercutio; a large piece of crape sufficed 
at once for Juliet's petticoat and pall ; a pestle 
and mortar from a neighbouring apothecary 's 
answered all the purposes of a bell; and our 
landlord's own family, wrapped in white sheets, 
served to fill up the procession. In short, there 
were but three figures among us that might be 
said to be dressed with any propriety ; I mean 
the nurse, the starved apothecary, and myself. 
Our performance gave universal satisfaction ; 
the whole audience were enchanted with our 
powers. 

' There is one rule by which a strolling-player 
may be ever secure of success; that is, in our 
theatrical way of expressing it, to make a great 
deal of the character. To speak and act as in 
common life, is not playing, nor is it what people 
come to see ; natural speaking, like sweet wine, 
runs glibly over the palate, and scarce leaves any 
taste behind it; but being high in a part re- 
sembles vinegar, which grates upon the taste, and 
one feels it while he is drinking. To please in 
town or country, the way is to cry, wring, 
cringe into attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the 
pockets, and labour like one in the falling sick- 
ness : that is the way to work for applause ; that 
is the way to gain it. 

* As we received much reputatioil for our skill 
on this first exhibition, it was but natural for me 
to ascribe part of the success to myself; I snuffed 
the candles, and, let me tell you, that, without a 
candle-snuffer, the piece would lose half its em- 
bellishments. In this manner we continued a 
fortnight, and drew tolerable houses ; but the 
evening before our intended departure, we gave 
out our very best piece, in which all our strength 
was to be exerted. We had great expectations 
from this, and even doubled our prices, when be- 
hold one of the principal actors fell ill of a 
violent fever. This was a stroke like thunder to 
our little company ; they were resolved to go, in 
a body, to scold the man for falling sick at so in- 
convenient a time, and that too of a disorder that 
threatened to be expensive ; I seized the moment, 



ESSAYS. 



261 



and offered to act the part myself in his stead. 
The case was desperate; they accepted my offer; 
and I accordingly sat down, with the part in my 
hand and a tankard before me (sir, your health) 
and studied the character, which was to be re- 
hearsed the next day, and played soon after. 

' I found my memory excessively helped by 
drinking; I learned my part with astonishing 
rapidity, and bade adieu to snuffing candles ever 
after. I foimd that nature had designed me for 
more noble employments, and I was resolved to 
take her when in the humour. We got together 
in order to rehearse, and I informed my com- 
panions, masters now no longer, of the surprising 
change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said 
I, be under no uneasiness to get well again ; I'll 
fill his place to universal satisfaction; he may 
even die, if he thinks proper; I'll engage that he 
shall never be missed. I rehearsed before them, 
strutted, ranted, and received applause. They 
soon gave out that a new actor of eminence was 
to appear, and immediately all the genteel places 
were bespoke. Before I ascended the stage, how- 
ever, I concluded within myself, that, as I 
brought money to the house, I ought to have my 
share in the profits. Gentlemen, said I, address- 
ing our company, I don't pretend to direct you; 
far be it from me to treat you with so much in- 
gratitude; you have published my name in the 
bills with the utmost good-nature ; and, as affairs 
stand, cannot act without me ; so gentlemen, to 
shew you my gratitude, I expect to be paid for 
my acting as much as any of you, otherwise I de- 
clare off. I'll brandish mv snuffers, and clip 
candles as usual. This was a very disagreeable 
proposal, but they found it was impossible to re- 
fuse it ; it was irresistible, it was adamant : they 
consented, and I went on in king Bajazet; my 
frowning brows, bound with a stocking stuffed 
into a turban, while on my captived arms I 
brandished a jack-chain. Nature seemed to have 
fitted me for the part ; I was tall, and had a loud 
voice; my very entrance excited universal ap- 
plause ; I looked round on the audience with a 
smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, 
for that is the rule among us. As it was a very 
passionate part, I invigorated my spirits with 
three full glasses (the tankard is almost out) ol 
brandy. By Alia ! it is almost inconceivable how 
I went through it ; Tammerlane was but a fool to 
me ; though he was sometimes loud enough too, 
yet I was still louder than he ; but then, besides, 
I had attitudes in abundance ; in general I kept 
my arms folded up thus upon the pit of my 
stomach; it is the way at Drury-lane, and has 
always a fine effect- The tankard would sink to 
the bottom before I could get through the whole 
of my merits ; in short I came off like a prodigy ; 
and, such was my success, that I could ravish 
the laurels even from a sirloin of beef. The 
principal gentlemen and ladies of the town came 
to me, after the play was over, to compliment 
me upon my success ; one praised my voice, 
another my person. Upon my word, says the 
squire's lady, he will make one of the finest 
actors in Europe; I say it, and I think I am 
something of a judge. — Praise in the beginning is 
agreeable enough, and we receive it as a favour ; 



but when it comes in great quantities we regard 
it only as a debt, which nothing but our merit 
could extort ; instead of thanking them, I inter- 
nally applauded myself. "We were desired to give 
our piece a second time ; we obeyed, and I was 
applauded even more than before. 

' At last we left the town, in order to be at a 
horse race at some distance from thence. I shall 
never think of Tenterden without tears of grati- 
tude and respect. The ladies and gentlemen 
there, take my word for it, are very good judges 
of plays and actors. Come, let us drink their 
healths, if you please, sir. We quitted the town, 
I say ; and there was a wide difference between 
my coming in and going out; I entered the 
town a candle-snuffer, and I quitted it a hero I— 
Such is the world; little to-day, and great to- 
morrow. I could say a great deal more upon 
that subject, something truly sublime upon the 
ups and downs of fortune ; but it would give us 
both the spleen, and so I shall pass it over. 

• The races were ended before we arrived at the 
next town, which was no small disappointment to 
our company ; however, we were resolved to take 
all we could get. I played capital characters 
there too, and came off with my usual brilliancy. 
I sincerely believe I should have been the first 
actor in Europe, had my growing merit been pro- 
perly cultivated; but there came an unkindly 
frost, which nipped me in the bud, and levelled 
me once more down to the common standard of 
humanity. I played Sir Harry Wildair; all the 
country-ladies were charmed ; if I but drew out 
my snuff-box the whole house was in a roar of 
rapture; when I exercised my cudgel, I thought 
they would have fallen into convulsions. 

' There was here a lady who had received an 
education of nine months in London, and this 
gave her pretensions to taste, which rendered her 
the indisputable mistress of the ceremonies 
wherever she came. She was informed of my 
merits ; every body praised me ; yet she refused 
at first going to see me perform ; she could not 
conceive, she said, any thing but stuff from a 
stroller ; talked something in praise of Garrick, 
and amazed the ladies with her skill in enuncia- 
tions, tones, and cadences ; she was at last, how- 
ever, prevailed upon to go ; and it was privately 
intimated to me what a judge was to be present 
at my next exhibition ; however, no way intimi- 
dated, I came on in Sir Harry, one hand stuck in 
my breeches, and the other in my bosom, as usual 
at Drury-lane ; but, instead of looking at me, I 
perceived the whole audience had their eyes 
turned upon the lady who had been nine months 
in London ; from her they expected the decision 
which was to secure the general's truncheon in 
my hand, or sink me down into a theatrical 
letter-carrier. I opened my snuff-box, took snuff; 
the lady was solemn, and so were the rest; I 
broke my cudgel on alderman Smuggler's back ; 
still gloomy, melancholy all, the lady groaned 
and shrugged her shoulders ; I attempted by 
laughing myself, to excite at least a smile, but 
the devil a cheek could I see wrinkled , into 
sympathy ; I found it would not do ; all my good- 
humour now became forced ; my laughter was 
converted into hysteric grinning; and, while I 



162 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



pretended spirits, my eye shewed the agony of my 
heart: in short, the lady came with an intention 
to be displeased, and displeased she was; my 
fame expired ; I am here, and— the tankard is no 



ESSAY VII. 

When Catharina Alexowna was made empress of 
Russia, the women were in an actual state of 
Dondage; but she undertook to introduce mixed 
assemblies, as in other parts of Europe: she 
altered the women's dress by substituting the 
fashions of England; instead of furs, she brought 
in the use of taffeta and damask; and cornets 
and commodes instead of caps of sable. The 
women now found themselves no longer shut up 
in separate apartments, but saw company, visited 
each other, and were present at every entertain- 
ment. 

But as the laws to this effect were directed to 
savage people, it is amusing enough to see the 
manner in which the ordinances ran. Assemblies 
were quite unknown among them: the czarina 
was satisfied with introducing them, for she found 
it impossible to render them polite. An ordinance 
was therefore published, according to their notions . 
of breeding, which, as it is a curiosity, and has 
never before been printed, that we know of, Ave 
shall give our readers : — 

' I. The person at whose house the assembly is 
to be kept, shall signify the same by hanging out 
a bill, or by giving some other public notice, by 
way of advertisement, to persons of both sexes. 

'II. The assembly shall not be open sooner 
than four or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor 
continue longer than ten at night. 

'III. The master of the house shall not be 
obliged to meet his guests, or conduct them out, 
or keep them company; but though he is exempt 
from all this, he is to find them chairs, candles, 
liquors, and all other necessaries that company 
may ask for:, he is likewise to provide them with 
cards, dice, and every necessary for gaming. 

' IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming 
or going away; it is enough for a person to appear 
in the assembly. 

'V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, ot 
game, as he pleases; nor shall any one go about 
to hinder him, or take exceptions at what he 
does, upon pain of emptying the great eagle; (a 
pint bowl full of brandy;) it shall likewise be 
sufficient, at entering or retiring, to salute the 
company. 

•VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior 
officers, merchants, and tradesmen of note, head- 
workmen, especially carpenters, and persons em- 
ployed in chancery, are to have liberty to enter 
the assemblies : as likewise their wives and 
children. 

* VII. A particular place shall be assigned the 
footmen, except those of the house, that there 
may bu room enough in the apartments designed 
for the assembly. 

'VIII. No ladies are to get drunk upon any 
pretence whatsoever; nor shall gentlemen be 
drunk before nine. 

' IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions, 
and commands, &c, shall not be riotous : no 



gentleman shall attempt to force a kiss, and no 
person shall offer to strike a woman in the as- 
sembly, under pain of future exclusion.' 

Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which, 
in their very appearance, carry an air of ridicule 
and satire. But politeness must enter every 
country by degrees ; and these rules resemble the 
breeding of a clown, awkward but sincere. 



ESSAY VIII. 

Supposed to be written ty the Ordinary of Newgate. 

Man is a most frail being, incapable of directing 
his steps, unacquainted with what is to happen in 
this life ; and perhaps no man is a more manifest 
instance of the truth of this maxim, than Mr. 
The. Cibber, just now gone out of the world. 
Such a variety of turns of fortune, yet such a 
persevering uniformity of conduct, appears in all 
that happened in his short span, that the whole 
may be looked upon as one regular confusion : 
every action of his life was matter of wonder and 
surprise, and his death was an astonishment. 

This gentleman was born of creditable parents, 
who gave him a very good education, and a great 
deal of good learning, so that he could read and 
write before he was sixteen. However, he early 
discovered an inclination to follow lewd courses : 
he refused to take the advice of his parents, and 
pursued the bent of his inclination; he played at 
cards on the Sundays, called himself a gentleman ; 
fell out with his mother and laundress ; and, even 
in these early days, his father was frequently 
heard to observe, that young The. would be 
hanged. 

As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of 
pleasure; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though 
he begged the guinea that bought it; and was 
once known to give three pounds for a plate of 
green pease, which he had collected over-night as 
charity for a friend in distress : he ran into debt 
with every body that would trust him, and none 
could build a sconce better than he; so that at last 
his creditors swore with one accord that The. 
would be hanged. 

But, as getting into debt by a man who had no 
visible means but impudence for a subsistence, is 
a thing that every reader is not acquainted with, 
I must explain that point a little, and that to his 
satisfaction. 

There are three ways of getting into debt ; first 
by pushing a face; as thus: — 'You, Mr. Lute- 
string, send me home six yards of that paduasoy, 
damme; but, harkee, don't think I ever intend to 
pay you for it, damme.' At this the mercer 
laughs heartily; cuts off the paduasoy, and sends 
it home; nor is he, till too late, surprised to find 
the gentleman had said nothing but truth, and 
kept his word. 

The second method of running into debt is 
called fineerinsr; which is getting goods made up 
in such a fashion as to be unfit for every other 
purchaser; and if the tradesman refuses to give 
them upon credit, then threaten to leave them 
upon his hands. 

But the third and best method is called, ' Being 
the good customer.' The gentleman first buys 



ESSAYS. 



263 



some trifle, and pays for it in ready money; he 
comes a few days after it with nothing about him 
but bank bills, and buys, we will suppose, a six- 
penny tweezer case ; the bills are too great to be 
changed, so he promises to return punctually the 
day after and pay for what he has bought. In 
this promise he is punctual, and this is repeated 
for eight or ten times, till his face is well known, 
and he has got at last the character of a good cus- 
tomer: by this means he gets credit for some- 
thing considerable, and then never pays for it. 

In all this, the young man who is the unhappy 
subject of our present reflections, was very expert ; 
and could face, fineer, and bring custom to a 
shop, with any man in England: none of his 
companions could exceed him in this; and his 
very companions at last said, that The. would be 
hanged. 

As he grew old, he grew never the better : he 
loved ortolans and green pease, as before: he 
drank gravy-soup when he could get it, and 
always thought his oysters tasted best when he 
got them for nothing, or, which was just the 
same, when he bought them upon tick : thus the 
old man kept up the vices of the youth, and what 
he wanted in power, he made up by inclination ; 
so that all the world thought that old The. would 
be hanged. 

And now, reader, I have brought him to his 
last scene; a scene where, perhaps, my duty 
should have obliged me to assist. You expect, 
perhaps, his dying words, and the tender iarewel 
he took of his wife and children ; you expect at 
account of his coffin and white gloves, his pioug 
ejaculations, and the papers he left behind him. 
In this I cannot indulge your curiosity; for, ohl 
the mysteries of fate, The. — was drowned I 

' Reader,' as Hervey saitb , ' pause and ponder ; 
and ponder and pause ; who knows what thy own 
end may be I' 




Both fell a sacrifice on the spot. 



ESSAY IX. 



There are few subjects which have been more 
written upon and less understood, than that of 
friendship. To follow the dictates of some, this 
virtue, instead of being the assuager of pain, 
becomes the source of every inconvenience. Such 
speculatists, by expecting too much from friend- 
ship, dissolve the connexion, and by drawing the 
bands too closely at length break them. Almost 
all our romance and novel writers are of this 
kind ; they persuade us to friendships, which we 
find it impossible to sustain to the last ; so that 
this sweetener of life, under proper regulations, 
is, by their means, rendered inaccessible or un- 
easy. It is certain, the best method to cultivate 
this virtue is by letting it, in some measure, make 
itself; a similitude of minds or studies, and even 
sometimes a diversity of pursuits will produce 
all the pleasures that arise from it. The current 
of tenderness widens as it proceeds ; and two men 
imperceptibly find their hearts affected with good 
nature for each other, when they were at first only 
in pursuit of mirth or relaxation. 

Friendship is like a debt of honour ; the mo- 
ment it is talked of, it loses its real name, and 
assumes the more ungrateful form of obligation ; 
from hence we find, that those who regularly 
undertake to cultivate friendship find ingratitude 
generally repays their endeavours. That circle 
of beings, which dependence gathers round us, 
is almost ever unfriendly ; they secretly wish the 
terms of their connexions more nearly equal ; and, 
where they even have the most virtue, are pre- 
pared to reserve all their affections for their pa- 
tron, only in the hour of his decline. Increasing 
the obligations which are laid upon such minds 
only increases their burden ; they feel themselves 
unable to repay the immensity of their debt, and 
their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent resent- 
ment at the hand that is stretched out with offers 
of service and relief. 

Plautinus was a man that thought that every 
good was to be brought from riches ; and as he 
was possessed of great wealth, and had a mind 
naturally formed for virtue, he resolved to gather 
a circle of the best men round him. Among the 
number of his dependants was Musidorus, with a 
mind just as fond of virtue, yet not less proud 
than his patron's. His circumstances, however, 
were such » as forced him to stoop to the good 
offices of his superior, and he saw himself daily 



264 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



among a number of others loaded with benefits 
and protestations of friendship. These in the 
usual course of the world, he thought it prudent 
to accept; but, while he gave his esteem, he 
could not give his heart. A want of .affection 
breaks out in the most trifling instances, and 
Plautinus had skill enough to observe the minut- 
est actions of the man he wished to make his 
friend. In these he even found his aim disap- 
pointed; Musidorus claimed an exchange of 
hearts, which Plautinus, solicited by a variety of 
claims, could never think of bestowing. 

It may be easily supposed, that the reserve of 
our poor, proud man was soon construed into 
ingratitude ; and such indeed in the common ac- 
ceptation of the world it was. Wherever Musi- 
dorus appeared, he was remarked as the ungrate- 
ful man; he had accepted favours, it was said, 
and still had the insolence to pretend to indepen- 
dence. The event, however, justified his con- 
duct. Plautinus, by misplaced liberality, at length 
became poor, and it was then that Musidorus first 
thought of making a friend of him. He flew to 
the man of falling fortune, with an offer of all he 
had ; wrought under his direction with assiduity j 
and by uniting their talents both were at length 
placed in that state of life from which one of them 
had formerly fallen. 

To this story, taken from modern life, I 6hall 
add one more, taken from a Greek writer of anti- 
quity. Two Jewish soldiers, in the time of Ves- 
pasian, had made many campaigns together, and 
a participation of danger at length bred a union 
of hearts. They were remarked throughout the 
whole army, as the two friendly brothers ; they 
felt and fbught for each other. Their friendship 
might have continued, without interruption, till 
death, had not the good fortune of the one alarmed 
the pride of the other, which was in his promotion 
to be a centurion under the famous John, who 
foeaded a particular part of the Jewish malcon 
tents. 

From this moment their former love was con- 
verted into the most inveterate enmity. They 
attached themselves to opposite factions, and 
sought each other's lives in the conflict of adverse 
party. In this manner they continued for more 
than two years vowing mutual revenge, and ani- 
mated with an unconquerable spirit of aversion. 
At length, however, that party of the Jews to 
which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the 
Romans, became victorious, and drove John, with 
all his adherents, into the temple. History has 
given us more than one picture of the dreadful 
conflagration of that superb edifice. The Roman 
soldiers were gathered round it ; the whole tem- 
ple was in flames, and thousands were seen 
amidst them, within its sacred circuit. It was in 
this situation of things, that the now successful 
soldier saw his former friend upon the battlements 
of the highest tower, looking round with horror, 
and just ready to be consumed with the flames. 
All his former tenderness now returned ; he saw 
the man of his bosom just going to perish ; and 
unable to withstand the impulse, he ran spreading 
his arms, and cried out to his friend to leap down 
from the top, and find safety with him. The 
centurion from above heard and obeyed, and 
casting himself from the top of the tower into his 
fellow-soldier's arms, both fell a sacrifice on the 



spot, one being crushed to death by the weight 
of his companion, and the other dashed to pieces 
by the greatness of his fall. 



ESSAY X. 

I take the liberty to communicate to the public 
a few loose thoughts upon a subject which, though 
often handled, has not yet in my opinion been 
fully discussed, — I mean national concord, or 
unanimity, which in this kingdom has been gene- 
rally considered as a bare possibility, that existed 
nowhere but in speculation. Such a union is 
perhaps neither to be expected nor wished for in 
a country whose liberty depends rather upon the 
genius of the people than upon any precautions 
which they have taken in a constitutional way 
for the guard and preservation of this inestimable 
blessing. 

There is a very honest gentleman, with whom I 
have been acquainted these thirty years, during 
which there has not been one speech uttered 
against the ministry in parliament, nor struggle 
at an election for a burgess to serve in the House 
of Commons, nor a pamphlet published in oppo- 
sition to any measure of the administration, nor 
even a private censure passed in his hearing upon 
the misconduct of any person concerned in public 
affairs, but he is immediately alarmed, and loudly 
exclaims against such factious doings, in order to 
set the people by the ears together at such a deli- 
cate juncture. 'At any other time,' says he, 
4 such opposition might not be improper, and I 
don't question the facts that are alleged ; but at 
this crisis, sir, to inflame the nation — the man 
deserves to be punished as a traitor to his 
country." In a word, according to this gentle- 
man's opinion, the nation has been in a violent 
crisis at any time these thirty years ; and were it 
possible for him to live another century, he would 
never find any period at which a man might with 
safety impugn the inaffability of a minister. 

The case is no more than this: my honest 
friend has invested his whole fortune in the 
stocks, on Government security, and trembles at 
every whiff of popular discontent. Were every 
British subject of the same tame and timid dispo- 
sition, Magna Charta (to use the coarse phrase of 
Oliver Cromwell) would be no more regarded by 
an ambitious prince than Magna Fa — ta, and the 
liberties of England expire without a groan. 
Opposition, when restrained within due bounds, 
is the salubrious gale that ventilates the opinions 
of the people, which might otherwise stagnate 
into the most abject submission. It may be said 
to purify the atmosphere of politics ; to dispel the 
gross vapours raised by the influence of ministe- 
rial artifice and corruption, until the constitution, 
like a mighty rock, stands full disclosed to the 
view of every individual who dwells within the 
shade of its protection. Even when this gale 
blows with augmented violence, it generally 
tends to the advantage of the commonwealth : it 
awakes the apprehension, and consequently arouses 
all the faculties of the pilot at the helm, who re- 
doubles his vigilance and caution, exerts his 
utmost skill, and, becoming acquainted with the 
naturo of the navigation, in a little time learns to 



ESSAYS. 



265 



suit his canvass to the roughness of the sea, and 
the trim of the vessel. Without these intervening 
storms of opposition to exercise his faculties, he 
•would become enervated, negligent, and presump- 
tuous; and, in the wantonness of his power, 
trusting to some deceitful calm, perhaps hazard a 
step that would wreck the constitution. Yet 
there is a measure in all things. A moderate 
frost will fertilize the glebe with nitrous particles, 
and destroy the eggs of pernicious insects that 
prey upon the fancy of the year; but if this frost 
increases in severity and duration, it will chill the 
seeds, and even freeze up the roots of vegetables ; 
it will check the bloom, nip the buds, and blast 
all the promise of the spring. The vernal breeze 
that drives the fogs before it, that brushes the 
cobwebs from the boughs, that fans the air, and 
fosters vegetation, if augmented to a tempest, 
will strip the leaves, overthrow the tree, and 
desolate the garden. The auspicious gale before 
which the trim vessel ploughs the bosom of the 
sea, while the mariners are kept alert in duty and 
in spirits, if converted into a hurricane, over- 
whelms the crew with terror and confusion. The 
sails are rent, the cordage cracked, the masts give 
way; the master eyes the havoc with mute des- 
pair, and the vessel founders in the storm. Op- 
position, when confined within its proper chan- 
nels, sweeps away those beds of soil and banks of 
sand which corruptive power had gathered ; but 
when it overflows its banks, and deluges the plain, 
its course is marked by ruin and devastation. 

The opposition necessary in a free state, like 
that of Great Britain, is not at all incompatible 
with the national concord which ought to unite 
the people on all emergencies, in which the 
general safety is at stake. It is the jealousy of 
patriotism, not the rancour of party — the warmth 
of candour, not the virulence of hate — a transient 
dispute among friends, not an implacable feud 
that admits of no reconciliation. The history of 
all ages teems with the fatal effects of internal 
discord; and were history and tradition annihi- 
lated, common sense would plainly point out the 
mischiefs that must arise from want of harmony 
and national union. Every schoolboy can have 
recourse to the fable of rods, which, when united 
in a bundle, no strength could bend ; but when 
separated into single twigs, a child could break 
with ease. 



ESSAY XL 
I have spent the greater part of my life in 
j making observations on men and things, and in 
! projecting schemes for the advantage of my 
| country; and though my labours met with an 
| ungrateful return, I will still persist in my endea- 
| vours for its service, like that venerable, un- 
I shaken, and neglected patriot, Mr. Jacob Henri- 
| quez, who, though of the Hebrew nation, hath 
| exhibited a shining example c,f Christian fortitude 
i and perseverance.* And here my conscience 
| urges me to confess, that the hint upon which 

* A man well known at this period, (1762,) as well as 
; during many preceding years, for the numerous schemes 
he was daily offering to the ministers for the purpose of 
| raising money by loans, paying off the national encum- 
I brances, Sec. none of which, however, were ever known to 
| have received the smallest notice. 



the following proposals are built, was taken from 
an advertisement of the said patriot Henriquez, 
in which he gave the public to understand, that 
Heaven had indulged him with ' seven blessed 
daughters,' Blessed they are, no doubt, on ac- 
count of their own and their father's virtues; 
but more blessed may they be, if the scheme 1 
offer should be adopted by the legislature. 

The proportion which the number of females 
born in these kingdoms bears to the male children, 
is, I think, supposed to be as thirteen to fourteen ; 
but as women are not so subject as the other sex 
to accidents and intemperance, in numbering 
adults we shall find the balance on the female 
side. If, in calculating the numbers of the 
people, we take in the multitudes that emigrate to 
the plantations, whence they never return; those 
that die at sea, and make their exit at Tyburn ; 
together with the consumption of the present war, 
by sea and land, in the Atlantic, Mediterranean, 
in the German and Indian Oceans, in Old France, 
New France, North America, the Leeward Islands, 
Germany, Africa, and Asia, we may fairly state 
the loss of men during the war at one hundred 
thousand. If this be the case, there must be a 
superplus of the other sex, amounting to the same 
number, and this superplus will consist of women 
able to bear arms ; as I take it for granted, that 
all those who are fit to bear children, are likewise 
fit to bear arms. Now, as we have seen the 
nation governed by old women, I hope to make it 
appear, that it may be defended by young women ; 
and surely this scheme will not be rejected as 
unnecessary at such a juncture,* when our armies, 
in the four quarters of the globe, are in want of 
recruits; when we find ourselves entangled in a 
new war with Spain, on the eve of a rupture in 
Italy, and, indeed, in a fair way of being obliged 
to make head against all the great potentates- of 
Europe. 

But, before I unfold my design, it may be neces- 
sary to obviate, from experience, as well as argu- 
ment, the objections which may be made to the 
delicate frame and tender disposition of the 
female sex, rendering them incapable of the toils, 
and insuperably averse to the horrors of war. 
All the world has heard of the nation of Amazons, 
who inhabited the banks of the river Thermodon, 
in Cappadocia, who expelled their men by force of 
arms, defended themselves by their own prowess, 
managed the reins of government, prosecuted the 
operations in war, and held the other sex in the 
utmost contempt. We are informed by Homer, 
that Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, acted as 
auxiliary to Priam, and fell, valiantly fighting in 
his cause, before the walls of Troy. Quintus 
Curtius tells us, that Thalestris brought one 
hundred armed Amazons in a present to Alexander 
the Great. Diodorus Siculus expressly says, there 
was a nation of female warriors in Africa, who 
fought against the Libyan Hercules. We read in 
the voyages of Columbus, that one of the Caribbee 
Islands was possessed by a tribe of female war- 
riors, who kept all the neighbouring Indians in 
awe; but we need not go farther than our own 
age and country to prove, that the spirit and con- 
stitution of the fair sex are equal to the dangers 
and fatigues of war. Every novice who has read 
the authentic and important History of the Pirates, 
* In the year 1762. 



266 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



is well acquainted with the exploits of two hero- 
ines, called Mary Read and Anne Bonny. I my- 
self have had the honour to drink with Anne 
Cassier, alias Mother Wade, who had distinguished 
herself among the Buccaneers of America, and in 
her old age kept a punch-house, in Port-Royal of 
Jamaica. I have likewise conversed with MoL 
Davis, who had served as a dragoon in all Queen 
Anne's wars, and was admitted on the pension of 
Chelsea. The late war with Spain, and even the 
present, hath produced instances of females 
enlisting hoth in the land and sea service, and 
behaving with remarkable bravery, in the disguise 
of the other sex. And who has not heard of the 
celebrated Jenny Cameron, and some other enter- 
prising ladies of North Britain, who attended a 
certain Adventurer in all his expeditions, and 
headed their respective clans in a military charac- 
ter ? That strength of body is often equal to the 
courage of mind implanted in the fair sex, will 
not be denied by those who have seen the water- 
women of Plymouth ; the female drudges of Ire- 
land, Wales, and Scotland; the irishwomen of 
Billingsgate ; the weeders, podders, and hoppers, 
who swarm in the fields; and the bunters who 
swagger in the streets of London ; not to mention 
the indefatigable trulls who follow the camp, and 
keep up with the line of march, though loaded 
with bantlings and other baggage. 

There is scarcely a street in this metropolis 
without one or more viragos, who discipline their 
husbands and domineer over the whole neighbour- 
hood. Many months are not elapsed since I was 
witness to a pitched battle between two athletic 
females, who fought with equal skill and fury 
until one of them gave out, after having sustained 
seven falls on the hard stones. They were both 
stripped to the under petticoat; their breasts 
were carefully swathed with handkerchiefs ; and 
as no vestiges of features were to be seen in either 
when I came up, I imagined the combatants were 
of the other sex, until a bystander assured me of 
the contrary, giving me to understand, that the 
conqueror had lain-in about five weeks of twin- 
bastards, begot by her second, who was an Irish 
chairman. When I see the avenues of the Strand 
beset every night with troops of fierce Amazons, 
who, with, dreadful imprecations, stop, and beat, 
and plunder passengers, I cannot help wishing 
that such martial talents were converted to the 
benefit of the public ; and that those who were so 
loaded with temporal fire, and so little afraid of 
eternal fire, should, instead of ruining the souls 
and bodies of their fellow-citizens, be put in a way 
of turning their destructive qualities against the 
enemies of the nation. 

Having thus demonstrated that the fair sex are 
not deficient in strength and resolution, I would 
humbly propose, that as there is an excess on 
their side in quantity to the amount of one hun- 
dred thousand, part of that number may be em- 
ployed in recruiting the army as well as in raising 
thirty new Amazonian regiments, to be command- 
ed by females, and serve in regimentals adapted 
to their sex. The Amazons of old appeared with, 
their left breasts bare, an open jacket, and trou- 
sers that descended no farther than the knee; 
the right breast was destroyed, that it might not 
impede them in bending the bow, or darting the 
javelin: but there is no occasion for this cruel 



excision in the present discipline, as we have seen 
instances of women who handle the musket, 
without finding any inconvenience from that pro- 
tuberance. 

As the sex love gaiety, they may be clothed in 
vests of pink satin, and open drawers of the same, 
with buskins on their feet and legs, their hair 
tied behind, and floating on their shoulders, and 
their hats adorned with white feathers : they may 
be armed with light carbines and long bayonets, 
without the encumbrance of swords or shoulder- 
belts. I make no doubt but many young ladies of 
figure and fashion will undertake to raise compa- 
nies at their own expense, provided they like 
their colonels ; but I must insist upon it, if this 
scheme should be embraced, that Mr. Henriquez's 
seven blessed daughters may be provided with 
commissions, as the project is in some measure 
owing to the hints of that .venerable patriot. I, 
moreover, give it as my opinion, that Mrs. Kitty 
Fisher* shall have the command of a battalion, 
and the nomination of her own officers, provided 
she will warrant them all sound, and be content 
to wear proper badges of distinction. 

A female brigade, properly disciplined and 
accoutred, would not, I am persuaded, be afraid 
to charge a numerous body of the enemy, over 
whom they would have a manifest advantage ; for 
if the barbarous Scythians were ashamed to fight 
with the Amazons who invaded them, surely the 
French, who pique themselves on their sensibility 
and devotion to the fair sex, would not act upon 
the offensive against a band of female warriors, 
arrayed in all the charms of youth and beauty. 

ESSAY XII. 

! As I am one of that sauntering tribe of mortals, 
| who spend the greatest part of their time in ta- 
| verns, coffee-houses, and other places of public 
j resort, I have thereby an opportunity of observing 
I an infinite variety of characters, which, to a per- 
| son of a contemplative turn, is a much higher 
! entertainment than a view of all the curiosities 
| of art or nature. In one of these, my late ram- 
bles, I accidentally fell into a company of half a 
dozen gentlemen, who were engaged in a warm 
dispute about some political affair, the decision of 
which, as they were equally divided in their sen- 
timents, they thought proper to refer to me, 
which naturally drew me in for a share of the 
conversation. 

Amongst a multiplicity of other topics, we took 
occasion to talk of the different characters of the 
several nations of Europe ; when one of the gen- 
tlemen, cocking his hat, and assuming such an air 
of importance as if he had possessed all the merit 
of the English nation In his own person, declared, 
that the Dutch were a parcel of avaricious 
wretches; the French a set of flattering syco- 
phants ; that the Germans were drunken sots, 
and beastly gluttons ; and the Spaniards, proud, 
haughty, and surly tyrants ; but that in bravery, 
generosity, clemency, and in every other virtue, 
the English excelled all the rest of the world. 

This very learned and judicious remark was 
received with a general smile of approbation by all 
the company — all, I mean, but your humble ser- 
vant, who, endeavouring to keep my gravity as 
* A celebrated courtezan of that time. 



ESSAYS. 



267 



well as I could, and reclining my head upon my 
arm, continued for some time in a posture of af- 
fected thoughtfulness, as if I had been musing on 
something else, and did not seem to attend to the 
subject of conversation ; hoping by these means 
to avoid the disagreeable necessity of explaining 
myself, and thereby depriving the gentleman of 
his imaginary happiness. 

But my pseudo-patriot had no mind to let me 
escape so easily. Not satisfied that his opinion 
should pass without contradiction, he was deter- 
mined to have it ratified by the suffrage of every 
one in the company ; for which purpose, address- 
ing himself to me with an air of inexpressible 
confidence, he asked me if I were not of the same 
way of thinking. As I am never forward in 
giving my opinion; especially when I have reason 
to believe that it will not be agreeable ; so, when 
I am obliged to give it, I always hold it for a 
maxim to speak my real sentiments. I therefore 
told him, that for my own part, I should not have 
ventured to talk in such a peremptory strain, un- 
less I had made the tour of Europe, and exa- 
mined the manners of these several nations with 
great accuracy : that perhaps a more impartial 
judge would not scruple to affirm, that the 
Dutch were more frugal and industrious, the 
French more temperate and polite, the Ger- 
mans more hardy and patient of labour and fa- 
tigue, and the Spaniards more staid and sedate, 
than the English; who, though undoubtedly 
brave and generous, were at the same time rash, 
headstrong, and impetuous ; too apt to be elated 
with prosperity, and to despond in adversity. 

I could easily perceive, that all the company be* 
gan to regard me with a jealous eye before I had 
finished my answer, which I had no sooner done, 
than the patriotic gentleman observed, with a 
contemptuous sneer, that he was greatly sur- 
prised how some people could have the conscience 
to live in a country which they did not love, and 
to enjoy the protection of a government, to 
which in their hearts they were inveterate ene- 
mies. Finding that by this modest declaration of 
my sentiments I had forfeited the good opinion of 
my companions, and given them occasion to call 
my political principles in question, and well 
knowing that it was in vain to argue with men 
who were so very full of themselves, I threw 
down my reckoning and retired to my own lodg- 
ings, reflecting on the absurd and ridiculous 
nature of national prejudice and prepossession. 

Among all the famous sayings of antiquity, 
there is none that does greater honour to the au- 
thor, or affords greater pleasure to the reader, (at 
least if he be a person of a generous and benevo- 
lent heart,) than that of the philosopher, who, be- 
ing asked what countryman he was, replied, that 
he was ' a citizen of the world.' How few are 
there to be found in modern times who can say 
the same, or whose conduct is consistent with 
such a profession ! — We are now become so much 
Englishmen, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Spaniards, 
or Germans, that we are no longer citizens of the 
world ; so much the natives of one particular 
spot, or members of one petty society, that we no 
longer consider ourselves as the general inhabit- 
ants of the globe, or members of that grand 
society which comprehends the whole human 
kind. 



Did these prejudices prevail only among the 
meanest and lowest of the people, perhaps they 
might be excused, as they have few, if any, op- 
portunities of correcting them by reading, travel- 
ling, or conversing with foreigners : but the mis- 
fortune is, that they infect the minds, and influ- 
ence the conduct, even of our gentlemen ; of 
those, I mean, who have every title to this appel- 
lation but an exemption from prejudice, which, 
however, in my opinion, ought to be regarded as 
the characteristical mark of a gentleman ; for, let 
a man's birth be ever so high, his station ever so 
exalted, or his fortune ever so large, yet if he be 
not free from national and other prejudices, I 
should make bold to tell him, that he had a low 
and vulgar mind, and had no just claim to the 
character of a gentleman. And, in fact, you will 
always find that those are most apt to boast of 
national merit, who have little or no merit of 
their own to depend on ; than which, to be sure, 
nothing is more natural : the slender vine twists 
around the sturdy oak, for no other reason in the 
world but because it has not strength sufficient to 
support itself. 

Should it be alleged in defence of national pre- 
judice, that it is the natural and necessary growth 
of love to our country, and that therefore the 
former cannot be destroyed without hurting the 
latter, I answer that this is a gross fallacy and 
delusion. That it is the growth of love to our 
country, I will allow : but that it is the natural 
and necessary growth of it, I absolutely deny. 
Superstition and enthusiasm, too, are the growth of 
religion ; but who ever took it in his head to af- 
firm, that they are the necessary growth of this 
noble principle ? They are, if you will, the bas- 
tard sprouts of this heavenly plant, but not its 
natural and genuine branches, and may safely 
enough be lopped off, without doing any harm to 
the parent stock : nay, perhaps, till once they are 
lopped off, this goodly tree can never flourish in 
perfect health and vigour. 

Is it not very possible that I may love my own 
country, without hating the natives of other 
countries ? that I may exert the most heroic bra- 
very, the most undaunted resolution, in defend- 
ing its laws and liberty, without despising all the 
rest of the world as cowards and poltroons ? Most 
certainly it is ; and if it were not — But why need 
I suppose what is absolutely impossible ? — But if 
it were not, I must own, I should prefer the title 
of the ancient philosopher, viz. a citizen of the 
world, to that of an Englishman, a Frenchman, a 
European, or to any other appellation whatever. 



ESSAY XIII.. 

Amidst the frivolous pursuits and pernicious 
dissipations of the present age, a respect for the 
qualities of the understanding still prevails to 
such a degree, that almost every individual pre- 
tends to have a taste for the Belles Lettres. The 
spruce apprentice sets up for a critic, and the 
puny beau piques himself upon being a connois- 
seur. Without assigning causes for this universal 
presumption, we shall proceed to observe, that if 
it was attended with no other inconvenience 
than that of exposing the pretender to the ridi- 



268 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



cuie of those few who can sift his pretensions, it 
might be unnecessary to undeceive the public, or 
to endeavour at the reformation of innocent folly, 
productive of no evil to the commonwealth. But 
in reality this folly is productive of manifold 
evils to the community. If the reputation of 
taste can be acquired, without the least assistance 
of literature, by reading modern poems, and see- 
ing modern plays, what person will deny himself 
the pleasure of such an easy qualification ? Hence 
the youth of both sexes are debauched to diver- 
sion, and seduced from much more profitable oc- 
cupations into idle endeavours after literary fame ; 
and a superficial false taste, founded on ignorance 
and conceit, takes possession of the public. The 
acquisition of learning, the study of nature, is ne- 
glected as superfluous labour; and the best 
faculties of the mind remain unexercised, and in- 
deed unopened, by the power of thought and re- 
flection. False taste will not only diffuse itself 
through all our amusements, but even influence 
our moral and political conduct; for what is false 
taste, but want of perception to discern propriety 
and distinguish beauty 1 

It has often been alleged, that taste is a natural 
talent, as independent of art as strong eyes, or a 
delicate sense of smelling ; and, without all 
doubt, the principal ingredient in the comnosition 
of taste, is a natural sensibility, without which it 
cannot exist ; but it differs from the senses in this 
particular, that they are finished by nature, 
whereas taste cannot be brought to perfection 
without proper cultivation ; for taste pretends to 
Judge, not only of nature, but also of art ; and 
that judgment is founded upon observation and 
comparison. 

What Horace has said of genius is still more 
applicable to taste : 

Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Quoesitum est. Ego nee studium sine divite vena, 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium : alterius sic 
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. 

Hor. Art, Poet. 
'Tis long disputed, whether poets claim 
From art or nature their best right to fame : 
But art, if not enrich' d by nature's vein, 
And a rude genius of uncultured strain, 
Are useless both ; but when in friendship join'd. 
A mutual succour in each other find. Francis. 

We have seen genius shine without the help of 
art, but taste must be cultivated by art, before it 
will produce agreeable fruit. This, however, we 
must still inculcate with Quintiiian, that study, 
precept, and observation, will nought avail, with- 
out the assistance of nature : 

Illud tamen imprimis testandum est, nihil prascepta 
atque artes valere. nisi adjuvante natura. 

Yet even though nature has done her part, by 
implanting the seeds of taste, great pains must be 
taken, and great skill exerted, in raising them to 
a proper pitch of vegetation. The judicious 
tutor must gradually and tenderly unfold the 
mental faculties of the youth committed to his 
charge. He must cherish his delicate perception ; 
store his mind with proper ideas ; point out the 
ditlerent channels of observation ; teach him to 
compare objects ; to establish the limits of right 
and -wrong, of truth and falsehood ; to distinguish 



beauty from tinsel, and grace from affectation • in 
a word, to strengthen and improve by culture, ex- 
perience, and instruction, those natural powers of 
feeling and sagacity, which constitute the faculty 
called taste, and enable the professor to enjoy the 
delights of the Belles Lettres. 

We cannot agree in opinion with those who 
imagine, that nature has been equally favourable 
to all men, in conferring upon them a fundamen- 
tal capacity, which may be improved to all the 
refinement of taste and criticism. Every day's 
experience convinces us of the contrary. Of two 
youths educated under the same preceptor, in- 
structed with the same care, and cultivated with 
the same assiduity, one shall not only compre- 
hend, but even anticipate the lessons of his mas- 
ter, by dint of natural discernment, while the 
other toils in vain to imbibe the least tincture of 
instruction. Such, indeed, is the distinction be- 
tween genius and stupidity, which every man has 
an opportunity of seeing among his friends and 
acquaintance. Not that we ought too hastily to 
decide upon the natural capacities of children, be- 
fore we have maturely considered the peculiarity 
of disposition, and the bias by which genius may 
be strangely warped from the common path of 
education. A youth incapable of retaining one 
rule of grammar, or of acquiring the least know- 
ledge of the classics, may nevertheless make great 
progress in mathematics — nay, he may have a 
strong genius for the mathematics, without being 
able to comprehend a demonstration of Euclid; 
because his mind conceives in a peculiar manner, 
and is so intent upon contemplating the object in 
one particular point of view, that it cannot per- 
ceive it in any other. We have known an in- 
stance of a boy, who, while his master complained 
that he had not capacity to comprehend the pro- 
perties of a right-angled triangle, had actually, in 
private, by the power of his genius, formed a ma- 
thematical system of his own, discovered a series 
of curious theorems, and even applied his deduc- 
tions to practical machines of surprising construc- 
tion. Besides, in the education of youth, we 
ought to remember, that some capacities are like 
the pyra prcecocia, — they soon blow, and soon at- 
tain to all the degree of maturity which they are 
capable of acquiring ; while, on the other hand, 
there are geniuses of slow growth, that are late in 
bursting the bud, and long in ripening. Yet the 
first shall yield a faint blossom and insipid fruit; 
whereas the produce of the other shall be distin- 
guished and admired for its well concocted juice 
and exquisite flavour. We have known a boy of 
five years of age surprise every body by playing on 
the violin in such a manner as seemed to promise 
a prodigy in music. He had all the assistance 
that art could afford ; by the age of ten his genius 
was at the a.xfm ; yet after that period, notwith- 
standing the most intense application, he never 
gave the least signs of improvement. At six he 
was admired as a miracle of music ; at six-and- 
twenty he was neglected as an ordinary fiddler. 
The celebrated Dean Swift was a remarkable in- 
stance in the other extreme. He was long con- 
sidered as an incorrigible dunce, and did not 
obtain his degree at the University but ex speciali 
gratia : yet when his powers began to unfold, he 
signalized himself by a very remarkable superi- 
ority of genius. When a youth therefore appears 



ESSAYS. 



26) 



dull of apprehension, and seems to derive no ad- 
vantage from study and instruction, the tutor 
must exercise his sagacity in discovering whether 
the soil be absolutely barren, or sown with seed 
repugnant to its nature, or of such a quality as re- 
quires repeated culture and length of time to set 
its juices in fermentation. These observations, 
however, relate to capacity in general, which we 
ought carefully to distinguish from taste. Capa- 
city implies the power of retaining what is re- 
ceived ; taste is the power of relishing or rejecting 
whatever is offered for the entertainment of the 
imagination. A man may have capacity to ac- 
quire what is called learning and philosophy; 
but he must have also sensibility, before he feels 
those emotions with which taste receives the im- 
pressions of beauty. 

Natural taste is apt to be seduced and de- 
bauched by vicious precept and bad example. 
There is a dangerous tinsel in false taste, by which 
the unwary mind and young imagination are often 
fascinated. Nothing has been so often explained, 
and yet so little understood, as simplicity in writing. 
Simplicity in this acceptation, has a larger signifi- 
cation than either the o.tXoov of the Greeks, or the 
simplex of the Latins ; for it implies beauty. It 
is the ocrXoov y,ou i,lliv of Demetrius Phalereus, the 
simplex munditiis of Horace, and expressed by 
one word, naivete, in the French language. It is, 
in fact, no other than beautiful nature, without 
affectation or extraneous ornament. In statuary, 
it is the Venus of Medicis ; in architecture, the 
Pantheon. It would be an endless task to enu- 
merate all the instances of this natural simplicity 
that occur in poetry and painting, among the 
ancients and moderns. We shall only mention 
two examples of it, the beauty of which consists 
in the pathetic. 

Anaxagoras the philosopher, and preceptor of 
Pericles, being told that both his sons were dead, 
laid his hand upon his heart, and, after a short 
pause, consoled himself with a reflection couched 
in three words : /,ouv 8vy,tov; ■ytytvvY,zojs, ' 1 knew they 
were mortal.' The other instance we select from 
the tragedy of Macbeth. The gallant Macduff, 
being informed that his wife and children were 
murdered by order of the tyrant, pulls his hat 
over his eyes, and his internal agony bursts out 
into an exclamation of four words', the most ex- 
pressive perhaps that ever were uttered : ' He has 
no children.' This is the energetic language of 
simple nature, which is now grown into disrepute. 
By the present mode of education, we are forcibly 
warped from the bias of nature, and all simplicity 
in manners is rejected. We are taught to dis- 
guise and distort our sentiments, until the faculty 
of thinking is diverted into an unnatural channel; 
and we not only relinquish and forget, but also 
become incapable of our original dispositions. We 
are totally changer! into creatures of art and affect- 
ation. Our perception is abused, and even our 
senses are perverted. Our minds lose their na- j 
tive force and flavour. The imagination, sweated 
by artificial fire, produces nought but vapid bloom. I 
The genius, instead of growing like a vigorous I 
tree, extending its branches on every side, and I 
bearing delicious fruit, resembles a stunted yew, j 
tortured into some wretched form, projecting no ! 
shade, displaying no flower, diffusing no fra- | 
grance, yielding no fruit, and affording nothing | 



but a barren conceit for the amusement of the 
idle spectator. 

Thus debauched from Nature, how can we 
relish her genuine productions? As well might a 
man distinguish objects through a prism, that 
presents nothing but a variety of colours to the 
eye; or a maid pining in the green sickness prefer 
a biscuit to a cinder. It has been often alleged, 
that the passions can never be wholly deposited; 
and that, by appealing to these, a good writer 
will always be able to force himself into the hearts 
of his readers: but even the strongest passions 
are weakened — nay, sometimes totally extin- 
guished — by mutual opposition, dissipation, and 
acquired insensibility. How often at the theatre 
is the tear of sympathy and the burst of laughter 
repressed by a ridiculous species of pride, refusing 
approbation to the author and actor, and re- 
nouncing society with the audience! This seem- 
ing insensibility is not owing to any original 
defect. Nature has stretched the string, though 
it has long ceased to vibrate. It may have been 
displaced and distracted by the violence of pride; 
it may have lost its tone through long disuse; or 
be so twisted or overstrained as to produce the 
most jarring discords. 

If so little regard is paid to nature when she 
knocks so powerfully at the breast, she must be 
altogether neglected and despised in her calmer 
mood of serene tranquillity, when nothing appears 
to recommend her but simplicity, propriety, and 
innocence. A person must have delicate feelings, 
that can taste the celebrated repartee in Terence: 
'Homo sum; nihil humani a me alienum puto,' 
— 'I am a man; therefore think I have an 
interest in every thing that concerns humanity.' 
A clear blue sky, spangled with stars, will prove 
an insipid object to eyes accustomed to the glare 
of torches and tapers, gilding and glitter; eyes 
that will turn with disgust from the green 
mantle of the spring, so gorgeously adorned with 
buds and foliage, flowers and blossoms, to con- 
template a gaudy silken robe, striped and inter- 
sected with unfriendly tints, that fritter the 
masses of light, and distract the vision, pinked 
into the most fantastic forms, flounced, and fur- 
belowed, and fringed with all the littleness of art 
unknown to elegance. 

Those ears that are offended by the notes of the 
thrush, the blackbird, and the nightingale, will 
be regaled and ravished by the squeaking fiddle, 
touched by a musician, who has no other genius 
than that which lies in his fingers : they will even 
be entertained with the rattling of coaches, and 
the alarming knock by which the doors of fashion- 
able people are so loudly distinguished. The 
sense of smelling, that delights in the scent of 
excrementitious animal juices, such as' musk, 
civet, and urinous salts, will loath the fragrance 
of new mown hay, the sweetbrier, the honey- 
suckle, and the rose. The organs that are gra- 
tified with the taste of sickly veal bled into a 
palsy, crammed fowls, and dropsical brawn, pease 
without substance, peaches without taste, and 
pine-apples without flavour, will certainly nauseate 
the native, genuine, and salutary r taste of Welch 
beef, Banstead mutton, and barn door fowls, 
whose juices are concocted by a natural digestion, 
and whose flesh is consolidated by free air and 
exercise. In such a total perversion of the 
Q 



270 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



senses the ideas must be misrepresented, the 
powers of the imagination disordered, and the 
judgment, of consequence, unsound. The disease 
is attended with a false appetite, which the 
natural food of the mind will not satisfy. It will 
prefer Ovid to Tibullus, and the rant of Lee to 
the tenderness of Otway. The soul sinks into a 
kind of sleepy idiotism, and is diverted by toys 
and baubles, which can only be pleasing to the 
most superficial curiosity. It is enlivened by a 
quick succession of trivial objects, that glisten 
and dance before the eye; and, like an infant, is 
kept awake and inspirited by the sound of a 
rattle. It must not only be dazzled and aroused, 
but also cheated, hurried, and perplexed, by the 
artifice of deception, business, intricacy, and in- 
trigue, — a kind of low juggle, which may be 
termed the legerdemain of genius. 

In this state of depravity the mind cannot 
enjoy, nor indeed distinguish, the charms of 
natural and moral beauty and decorum. The 
ingenuous blush of native innocence, the plain 
language of ancient faith and sincerity, the cheer- 
ful resignation to the will of heaven, the mutual 
affection of the charities, the voluntary respect 
paid to superior dignity or station, the virtue of 
beneficence, extended even to the brute creation 
— nay, the very crimson glow of health, and 
swelling lines of beauty, are despised, detested, 
scorned, and ridiculed, as ignorance, rudeness, 
rusticity, and superstition. Thus we see how 
moral and natural beauty are connected ; and of 
what importance it is, even to the formation of 
taste, that the manners should be severely super- 
intended. This is a task which ought to take the 
lead of science; for we will venture to say, that 
virtue is the foundation of taste ; or rather, that 
virtue and taste are built upon the same foun- 
dation of sensibility, and cannot be disjoined 
without offering violence to both. But virtue 
must be informed, and taste instructed, otherwise 
they will both remain imperfect and ineffectual : 

Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis, 

Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes, 

Quod sit Conseripti, quod judicis officium, quae 

Partes in bellum missi ducis; ille profecto 

Reddere personae scit convenientia cuique. Hok. 

The critic, who with nice discernment knows 
What to his country and his friends he owes; 
How various nature warms the human breast, 
To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest; 
What the great functions of our judges are, 
Of senators, and generals sent to war: 
He can distinguish, with unerring art, 
The strokes peculiar to each different part. 

Thus we see taste is composed of nature im- 
proved by art; of feeling tutored by instruction. 



ESSAY XIV. 

Hattno explained what we conceive to be true 
taste, and in some measure accounted for the 
prevalence of vitiated taste, we should proceed to 
point out the most effectual manner in which a 
natural capacity may be improved into a delicacy 
of judgment, and an intimate acquaintance with 
the Belles Lettres. "We shall take it for granted, 
that proper means have been used to form the 



manners, and attach the mind to virtue. The 
heart, cultivated by precept, and warmed by ex- 
ample, improves in sensibility, which is the 
foundation of taste. By distinguishing the in- 
fluence and scope of morality, and cherishing the 
ideas of benevolence, it acquires a habit of sym- 
pathy, which tenderly feels responsive, like the 
vibration of unisons, every touch of moral beauty. 
Hence it is that a man of a social heart, enten- 
dered by the practice of virtue, is awakened to 
the most pathetic emotions by every uncommon 
instance of generosity, compassion, and greatness 
of soul. Is there any man so dead to sentiment, 
so lost to humanity, as to read unmoved the 
generous behaviour of the Romans to the states 
of Greece, as it is recounted by Livy, or embel- 
lished by Thomson in his poem of Liberty? 
Speaking of Greece in the decline of her power, 
when her freedom no longer existed, he says: 

As at her Isthmian games— a fading pomp, 

Her full assembled youth innumerous swarm'd, 

On a tribunal raised Fiaminicts* sat; 

A victor he, from the deep Phalanx pierced 

Of iron-coated Macedon, and back 

The Grecian tyrant to his bounds repell'd. 

In the high thoughtlessgaiety of game, 

While sport alone their unambitious hearts 

Possess'd, the sudden trumpet, sounding hoars*, 

Bade silence o'er the bright assembly reign. 

Then thus a herald, — ' To the states of Greece 

The Roman people, unconfined, restore 

Their countries, cities, liberties, and laws; 

Taxes remit, and garrisons withdraw.' 

The crowd, astonish'd half, and half inform 'J, 

Stared dubious round; some questional, som» exclaim'd. 

(Like one who, dreaming between hope and fear, 

Is lost in anxious joy,) ' Be that again — 

Be that again proclaim'd distinct and loud!' 

Loud and distinct it was again proclaim'd; 

And, still as midnight in the rural shade, 

When the gale slumbers, they the words devour'd. 

Awhile severe amazement held them mute, 

Then bursting broad, the boundless shout to heaven 

From many a thousand hearts ecstatic sprung! 

On every hand rebellow'd to their joy 

The swelling sea, the rocks, and vocal hills. 

.... Like Bac.hanals they flew, 

Each other straining in a strict embrace, 

Nor strain'd a slave; and loud acclaims, till night, 

Round the proconsul's tent repeated rung. 

To one acquainted with the genius of Greece, 
the character and disposition of that polished 
people, admired for science, renowned for an un- 
extinguishable love of freedom, nothing can be 
more affecting than this instance of generous 
magnanimity of the Roman people, in restoring 
them unasked to the full fruition of those liberties 
which they had so unfortunately lost. 

The mind of sensibility is equally struck by the 
generous confidence of Alexander, who drinks, 
without hesitation, the potion presented by his 
physician Philip, even after he had received in- 
timation that poison was contained in the cup : a 
noble and pathetic scene, which hath acquired 
new dignity and expression under the inimitable 
pencil of a Le Sueur. Humanity is melted into 
tears of tender admiration, by the deportment of 
Henry IV. of France, while his rebellious subjects 
compelled him to form the blockade of his ca- 
pital. In chastising his enemies, he could not 
but remember they were his people; and knowing 
they were reduced to the extremity of famine, he 

* His real name was Quintus riamin:o». 



ESSAYS. 



271 j 



generously connived at the methods practised to 
supply them with provision. Chancing one day 
to meet two peasants, who had been detected in 
these practices, as they were led to execution 
they implored his clemency, declaring in the 
sight of heaven, they had no other way to procure 
subsistence for their wives and children : he par- 
doned them on the spot, and giving them all the 
money that was in his purse, 'Henry of Bearne 
is poor,' said he; 'had he more money to afford, 
you should have it : go home to your families in 
peace; and remember your duty to God, and 
your allegiance to your sovereign.' Innumerable 
examples of the same kind may he selected from 
•history both ancient and modern, the study of 
which we would therefore^ strenuously recom- 
mend. 

Historical knowledge, indeed, hecomes neces- 
sary on many other accounts, which in its place 
we will explain: but as the formation of the 
heart is of the first consequence, and should 
precede the cultivation of the understanding, 
such striking instances of superior virtue ought 
to be culled for the perusal of the young pupil, 
who will read them with eagerness, and revolve 
them with pleasure. Thus the young mind be- 
comes enamoured of moral beauty, and the pas- 
sions are listed on the side of humanity. Mean- 
while, knowledge of a different species will go 
hand in hand with the advances of morality, and 
the understanding be gradually extended. Virtue 
and sentiment reciprocally assist each other, and 
both conduce to the improvement of perception 
While the scholar's chief attention is employed in 
learning the Latin and Greek languages, and this 
is generally the task of childhood and early youth, 
it is even then the business of the preceptor to 
give his mind a turn for observation, to direct his 
powers of discernment, to point put the distin- 
guishing marks of character, and dwell upon the 
charms of moral and intellectual beauty, as they 
may chance to occur in the classics that are used 
for his instruction. In reading Cornelius Nepos, 
and Plutarch's Lives, even with a view to gram- 
matical improvement only, he will insensibly 
imbibe, and learn to compare, ideas of great im- 
portance. He will become enamoured of virtue 
and patriotism, and acquire a detestation for vice, 
cruelty, and corruption. The perusal of the 
Roman story in the works of Florus, Sallust, 
Livy, and Tacitus, will irresistibly engage his 
attention, expand his conception, cherish his 
memory, exercise his judgment, and warm him 
with a noble spirit of emulation. He will con- 
template with love and admiration the disin- 
terested candour of Aristides, surnamed the Just, 
whom the guilty cabals of his rival Themistocles 
exiled from his ungrateful country, by a sentence 
of Ostracism. He will be surprised to learn, that 
one of his fellow-citizens, an illiterate artisan, 
bribed by his enemies, chancing to meet him in 
the street without knowing his person, desired 
he would write Aristides on his shell (which was 
the method those plebeians used to vote against 
delinquents,) when the innocent patriot wrote his 
own name without complaint or expostulation. 
He will with equal astonishment applaud the 
inflexible integrity of Fabricius, who preferred 
the poverty of innocence to all the pomp of 
affluence, with which Pyrrhus endeavoured to 



seduce him from the arms of his country. He 
will approve with transport the noble generosity 
of his soul in rejecting the proposal of that prince's 
physician, who offered to take him off by poison ; 
and in sending the caitiff bound to his sovereign, 
whom he would have so basely and cruelly be- 
trayed. 

In reading the ancient authors, even for the 
purposes of school education, the unformed taste 
will begin to relish the irresistible energy, great- 
ness, and sublimity of Homer; the serene majesty, 
the melody, and pathos of Virgil; the tenderness 
of Sappho and Tibullus; the elegance and pro- 
priety of Terence ; the grace, vivacity, satire, and 
sentiment of Horace. 

Nothing will more conduce to the improvement 
of the scholar in his knowledge of the languages, 
as well as in taste and morality, than his being 
obliged to translate choice parts and passages of 
the most approved classics, both poetry and prose, 
especially the latter; such as the orations of 
Demosthenes and Isocrates, the treatise of Lon- 
ginus on the Sublime, the Commentaries of Caesar, 
the Epistles of Cicero and the younger Pliny, and 
the two celebrated speeches in the Catilinarian 
conspiracy,* by Sallust. By this practice he will 
become more intimate with the beauties of the 
writing, and the idioms of the language, from 
which he translates ; at the same time, it will 
form his style, and, by exercising his talent of ex- 
pression, make him a more perfect master of his 
mother tongue. Cicero tells us, that in translating 
two orations, which the most celebrated orators of 
Greece pronounced against each other, he per- 
formed this task, not as a servile interpreter, but 
as an orator, preserving the sentiments, forms, 
and figures of the original, but adapting the ex- 
pression to the taste and manners of the Romans : 
' In quibus non verbum pro verbo necesse habui 
reddere, sed genus omnium verborum vimque 
servavi,' — ' in which I did not think it was ne- 
cessary to translate literally word for word, but I 
preserved the natural and full scope of the whole.' 
Of the same opinion was Horace, who says, in his 
art of Poetry, — 

Nee verbum verbo cura'ois reddere fidus 
Tnterpres .... 

Nor word for word translate with painful care .... 

Nevertheless, in taking the liberty here granted, 
we are apt to run into the other extreme, and 
substitute equivalent thoughts and phrases, till 
hardly any features of the original remain. The 
metaphors of figures, especially in poetry, ought 
to be as religiously preserved as the images of 
painting, which we cannot alter or exchange 
without destroying, or injuring at least, the cha- 
racter and style of the original. 

In this manner, the preceptor will sow the seeds 
of that taste which will soon germinate, rise, 
blossom, and produce perfect fruit by dint of fu- 
ture care and cultivation. In order to restrain 
the luxuriancy of the young imagination, which 
is apt to run riot, to enlarge the stock of ideas, 
exercise the reason, and ripen the judgment, the 
pupil must be engaged in the severer study of 
science. He must learn geometry, which Plato 
recommends for strengthening the mind, ai_ 



* The speeches of Cato and Caesar, 



272 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



enabling it to think with precision. He must be 
made acquainted with geography and chronology, 
and trace philosophy through all her branches. 
Without geography and chronology, he will not 
be able to acquire a distinct idea of history; nor 
judge of the propriety of many interesting scenes, 
and a thousand illusions, that present themselves 
in the works of genius. Nothing opens the mind 
so much as the researches of philosophy ; they 
inspire us with sublime conceptions of the Creator, 
and subject, as it were, all nature to our com- 
mand. These bestow that liberal turn of think- 
ing, and in a great measure contribute to that 
universality in learning, by which a man of taste 
ought to be eminently distinguished. But history 
is the inexhaustible source from which he will 
derive his most useful knowledge respecting the 
progress of the human mind, the constitution of 
government, the rise and decline of empires, the 
revolution of arts, the variety of character, and 
the vicissitudes of fortune. 

The knowledge of history enables the poet not 
only to paint characters, but also to describe mag- 
nificent and interesting scenes of battle and ad- 
venture. Not that the poet or painter ought to 
be restrained to the lettt,i of historical truth. 
History represents what has really happened in 
nature ; the other arts exhibit what might have 
happened, with such exaggeration of circumstance 
and feature, as may be deemed an improvement 
on nature : but this exaggeration must not be 
carried beyond the bounds of probability ; a^d 
these, generally speaking, the knowledge of hi9 
tory will ascertain. It would be extremely diffi- 
cult, if not impossible, to find a man actually 
existing, whose proportions should answer to 
those of the Greek statue distinguished by the 
name of the Apollo of Belvedere ; or to produce a 
woman similar in proportion of parts to the other 
celebrated piece called the Venus de Medicis; 
therefore, it may be truly affirmed, that they are 
not conformable to the real standard of nature : 
nevertheless, every artist will own, that they are 
the very archetypes of grace, elegance, and sym- 
metry ; and every judging eye must behold them 
with admiration, as improvements on the lines 
and lineaments of nature. The truth is, the 
sculptor or statuary composed the various pro- 
portions in nature from a great number of differ- 
ent subjects, every individual of which he found 
imperfect or defective in some one particular, 
though beautiful in all the rest; and from these 
observations,corroboratedby taste and judgment, 
he formed an ideal pattern, according to which 
his idea wab modelled, and produced in execution. 
Every body knows the story of Zeuxis, the 
famous painter of Heraclea, who, according to 
Pliny, invented the chiaro oscuro, or disposition 
of light and shade, among the ancients, and ex- 
celled all his contemporaries in the chromatique, 
or art of colouring. This great artist being em- 
ployed to draw a perfect beauty in the character 
of Helen, to be placed in the temple of Juno, 
culled out five of the most beautiful damsels the 
city could produce, and selecting what was excel- 
lent in each, combined them in one picture ac- 
cording to the predisposition of his fancy, so that 
it shone forth an amazing model of perfection.* 
* Prs-bete igitur mihi quaeso, inqtiit, ex istis virginibus 
formosissimas, dura pingo id, quod pouit-itus sum vobis. 



In like manner, every man of genius, Yegulated 
by true taste, entertains in his imagination an, 
ideal beauty, conceived and cultivated as an im- 
provement upon nature : and this we refer to the j 
article of invention. 

It is the business of art to imitate nature, but 
not with a servile pencil; and to choose those 
attitudes and dispositions only, which are beauti- 
ful and engaging. With this view, we must 
avoid all disagreeable prospects of nature which 
excite the ideas of abhorrence and disgust. For 
example, a painter would not find his account in 
exhibiting the resemblance of a dead carcase half 
consumed by vermin, or of swine wallowing in 
ordure, or of a beggar lousing himself on a dung- 
hill, though these scenes should be painted never 
so naturally; and all the world must allow that 
the scenes were taken from nature, because the 
merit 01 the imitation would be greatly over- 
balanced by the vile choice of the artist. There 
are nevertheless many scenes of horror, which 
please in the representation, from a certain inte- 
resting greatness, which we shall endeavour to 
explain, when we come to consider the sublime. 

Were we to judge every production by the 
rigorous rules of nature, we should reject the Iliad 
of Homer, the iEneid of Virgil, and every cele- 
brated tragedy of antiquity and the present times, 
because there is no such thing in nature as a 
Hector or Turnus talking in hexameter, or an 
Otheilo in blank, verse: we should condemn the 
Hercules of Sophocles, and the Miser of Moliere, 
because we never knew a hero so strong as the 
one, or a wretch so sordid as the other. But if we 
consider poetry as an elevation of natural dia- 
logue, as a delightful vehicle for conveying the 
noblest sentiments of heroism and patriot virtue, 
to regale the sense with the sounds of musical 
expression, while the iancy is ravished with en- 
chanting images, and the heart warmed to rap- 
ture and ecstasy, we must allow that poetry is a 
perfection to which natt re would gladly aspire; 
and that, though it surpai ses, it does not deviate 
from her, provided the haracters are marked 
with propriety, and sustained by genius. Charac- 
ters, therefore, both in poetry and painting, may 
be a little overcharged, or exaggerated, without 
offering violence to nature; nay, they must be 
exaggerated in order to be striking, and to pre- 
serve the idea of imitation, vhence the reader 
and spectator derive, in many instances, their chief 
delight. If we meet a common acquaintance in 
the street, we see him without emotion; but 
should we chance to spy his portrait well exe- 
cuted, we are struck with pleasing admiration. 
In this case, the pleasure arises entirely from the 
imitation. We every day hear unmoved the na- 
tives of Ireland and Scotland speaking their own 
dialects ; but should an Englishman mimic either, 
we are apt to burst out into a loud laugh of ap- 
plause, being surprised and tickled by the imita- 
tion alone; though, at the same time, we cannot 
hut allow that the imitation is imperfect. We are 
more affected by reading Shakspeare's descrip- 
tion of Dover Cliff, and Otway's picture of the 

ut mutum in simulacrum ex animali exemplo Veritas 
transferatur. II W? autem quinque delegit. rseque enim 
putavit omnia, quse quatreret ad venustatem, uno in 
corpore se reperire posse; :deo quod nihil simplici in ge 
nere omnibus ex partibus perlectum natuia expolivit 
Cic. JLib. ii. de lnv. cap. 1. 



ESSAYS. 



273 



Old Hag,* than we should be were we actually 
placed on the summit of the one, or met in reality 
with such a beldame as the other ; because, in 
reading these descriptions, we refer to our own 
experience, and perceive, with surprise, the just- 
ness of the imitations. But if it is so close as to 
be mistaken for nature, the pleasure then will 
cease, because the pi^o-is, or imitation, no longer 
appears. 

Aristotle says, that all poetry and music is imi- 
tation,! whether epic, tragic, or comic, whether 
vocal or instrumental, from the pipe or the lyre. 
He observes, that in man there is a propensity to 
imitate, even from his infancy; that the first per- 
ceptions of the mind are acquired by imitation; 
and seems to think, that the pleasure derived 
from imitation is the gratification of an appetite 
implanted by nature. We should rather think 
the pleasure it gives arises from the mind con- 
templating that excellency of art, which thus 
rivals nature, and seems to vie with her in creat- 
ing such a striking resemblance of her works. 
Thus the arts may be justly termed imitative, 
even in the article of invention : for, in forming 
a character, contriving an incident, and describing 
a scene, he must still keep nature in view, and 
refer every particular of his invention to her 
standard ; otherwise, his production will be desti- 
tute of truth and probability, without which the 
beauties of imitation cannot subsist. It will be a 
monster of incongruity, such as Horace alludes 
to, in the beginning of his Epistle to thePisos: 

Humano capiti cervicern pictor equinam 
Junuere si velit, et varias inducere plumas 
Undique eollatis membris, ut turpiter atrum 
Desinat in piscem, mulier formosa superne; 
Spectatum admissi risum'teneatis, amici ? 
Suppose a painter, to a human head 
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread 
The various plumase of the feather'd kind 
O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly join'd; 
Or if he irave to view a beauteous maid. 
Above the waist with every charm array'd, 
Should a foul fish her lower parts unfold, 
Would you not laugh such pictures to behold ? 

The magazine of nature supplies all those images 
which compose the most beautiful imitations. 
This the artist examines occasionally, as he would 
consult a collection of masterly sketches ; and 
selecting particulars for his purpose, mingles the 
ideas with a kind of enthusiasm, or to 3-e~«v, which 
is that gifi of Heaven we call genius, and finally 
produces such a whole, as commands admiration 
and applause. 



ESSAY XV. 

Thtc study of polite literature is generally sup- 
posed to include all the liberal arts of poetry, 
painting, sculpture, music eloquence, and archi- 
tecture. All these are founded on imitation ; and 
ail of them mutually assist and illustrate each 
other. But as painting, sculpture, music, and 

* In The Orphan. 
t 'Erovohoc 7>-/j y,u.i vi rvjs Tcu.yoih'iu.s voirffis, lr> 
hi xoxMtibtu. y,at r, hibvett.u$o-roi'/iTiXY„ xut ty,s »v\i- 
ixv,i -/j k/*uo-7v\ x.a.1 xwcttzurTtKrii, natron a-r 

OVUtM /M/U.S,; US TO O-VVO/.O*. 



architecture, cannot be perfectly attained without 
long practice of manual operation, we shall dis- 
tinguish them from poetry and eloquence, which 
depend entirely on the faculties of the mind ; and 
on these last, as on the arts which immediately 
constitute the Belles Lettres, employ our atten- 
tion in the present inquiry : or, if it should run to 
a greater length than we propose, it shall be con- 
fined to poetry alone ; a subject that comprehends 
in its full extent the province of taste, or what is 
called polite literature; and differs essentially 
from eloquence, both in its end and origin. 

Poetry sprang from ease, and was consecrated 
to pleasure ; whereas eloquence arose from neces- 
sity, and aims at conviction. When we say poetry 
sprang from ease, perhaps we ought to except 
that species of it, which owed its rise to inspira- 
tion and enthusiasm, and properly belonged to 
the culture of religion. In the first ages of man- 
kind, and even in the original state of nature, the 
unlettered mind must have been struck with sub- 
lime conceptions, with admiration and awe, by 
those great phenomena, which, though every day 
repeated, can never be viewed without internal 
emotion. Those would break forth in exclama- 
tions expressive of the passion produced, whether 
surprise or gratitude, terror, or exultation. The 
rising, the apparent course, the setting, and seem- 
ing renovation of the sun ; the revolution of light 
and darkness; the splendour, change, and circuit 
of the moon, and the canopy of heaven bespangled 
with stars, must have produced expressions of 
wonder and adoration. 'O glorious luminary! 
great eye of the world ! source cf that light which 
guides my steps ! of that heat which warms me 
when chilled with cold ! of that influence which 
cheers the face of nature ! whither dost thou re- 
tire every evening with the shades ? Whence dost 
thou spring every morning with renovated lustre, 
and never-fading glory? Art not thou the ruler, 
the creator, the god, of all that I behold I I adore 
thee, as thy child, thy slave, thy suppliant ! I 
crave thy protection, and the continuance of thy 
goodness ! Leave me not to perish with cold, or 
to wander solitary in utter darkness ! Return, 
return, after thy wonted absence : drive before 
thee the gloomy clouds that would obscure the 
face of nature. The birds begin to warble, and 
every animal is filled with gladness at thy ap- 
proach : even the trees, the herbs, and the flowers, 
seem to rejoice with fresher beauties, and send 
forth a grateful incense to thy power, whence 
their origin is derived ! ' A number of indivi- 
duals, inspired with the same ideas, would join in 
these orisons, which would be accompanied with 
corresponding gesticulations of the body. They 
would be improved by practice, and grow regular 
from repetition. . The sounds and gestures would 
naturally fall into measured cadence. Thus the 
song and dance would be produced; and a system 
of worship being formed, the muse would be con- 
secrated to the purposes of religion. 

Hence those forms of thanksgivings, and lita- 
nies of supplication, with which the religious 
rites of all nations, even the most barbarous, are 
at this day celebrated in every quarter of the 
known world. Indeed, this is a circumstance in 
which all nations surprisingly agree, how much 
soever they may differ in every other article of 
laws, customs, manners, and religion. The an- 



274 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



cient Egyptians celebrated the festivals of their 
god Apis with hymns and dances. The super- 
stition of the Greeks, partly derived from the 
Egyptians, abounded with poetical ceremonies, 
such as choruses and hymns, sung and danced at 
their apotheoses, sacrifices, games, and divina- 
tions. The Romans had their Carmen Seculare, 
and Salian priests, who on certain festivals sang 
and danced through the streets of Rome. The 
Israelites were famous for this kind of exulta- 
tion : * And Miriam, the prophetess, the sister of 
Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the 
women went out after her, with timbrels and with 
dances; and Miriam answered them, Sing ye to 
the Lord,' &c. — ' And David danced before the 
Lord with all his might.' The psalms composed 
by this monarch, the songs of Deborah and Isaiah, 
are farther confirmations of what we have ad- 
vanced. 

From the Phoenicians the Greeks borrowed the 
cursed Orthyan song, when they sacrificed their 
children to Diana. The poetry of the bards con- 
stituted great part of the religious ceremonies 
among the Gauls and Britons; and the carousals 
of the Goths were religious institutions, cele- 
brated with songs of triumph. The Mahometan 
Dervise dances to the sound of the flute, and 
whirls himself round until he grows giddy, and 
falls into a trance. The Marabouts compose 
hymns in praise of Alia. The Chinese celebrate 
their grand festivals with processions of ido'13, 
songs, and instrumental music. The Tartars, 
Samoiedes, Laplanders, Negroes, even the Caffres 
called Hottentots, solemnize their worship (sucn 
as it is) with songs and dancing ; so that we may 
venture to say, poetry is the universal vehicle in 
which all nations have expressed their most sub- 
lime conceptions. 

Poetry was, in all appearance, previous to any 
concerted plan of worship, and to every established 
system of legislation. When certain individuals, 
by dint of superior prowess or understanding, had 
acquired the veneration of their fellow savages, 
and erected themselves into divinities on the ig- 
norance and superstition of mankind ; then my- 
thology took place, and such a swarm of deities 
arose, as produced a religion replete with the 
most shocking absurdities. Those whom their 
superior talents had deified, were found to be still 
actuated by the most brutal passions of human 
nature; and, in all probability, their votaries 
were glad to find such examples, to countenance 
their own vicious inclinations. Thus, fornica- 
tion, incest, rape, and even bestiality, were sanc- 
tified by the amours of Jupiter, Pan, Mars, Venus, 
and Apollo. Theft was patronized by Mercury, 
drunkenness by Bacchus, and cruelty by Diana. 
The same heroes and legislators, those who deli- 
vered their country, founded cities, established 
societies, invented useful arts, or contributed, in 
any eminent degree, to the security and happi- 
ness of their fellow creatures, were inspired by the 
same lusts and appetites which domineered among 
the inferior classes of mankind; therefore, every 
vice incident to human nature was celebrated in 
the worship of one or other of these divinities, 
and every infirmity consecrated by public feast 
and solemn sacrifice. In these institutions, the 
Poet bore a principal share. It was his genius 
that contrived the plan, that executed the form 



of worship, and recorded in verse the origin and 
adventures of their gods and demigods. Hence 
the impurities and horrors of certain rites ; the 
groves of Paphos and Baal-Peor; the orgies of 
Bacchus; the human sacrifices to Moloch and 
Diana. Hence the theogony of Hesiod ; the theo- 
logy of Homer ; and those innumerable maxims 
scattered through the ancient poets, inviting 
mankind to gratify their sensual appetites, in 
imitation of the gods; who were certainly the best 
judges of happiness. It is well known, that Plato 
expelled Homer from his commonwealth, on ac- 
count of the infamous characters by which he has 
distinguished his deities, as well as for some de- 
praved sentiments which he found diffused through 
the course of the Iliad and Odyssey. Cicero en- 
ters into the spirit of Plato, and exclaims, in his 
first book Be Natura Beorum: — " Nee multa ab- 
surdiora sunt ea, quae, poetarum vocibus fusa, 
ipsa suavitate nocuerunt : qui, et ira inflam- 
matos, et libidine furentes induxerunt Deos,. 
feceruntque ut eorum bella, pugnas, praslia, vul- 
nera videremus : odia praeterea, dissidia, discor- 
dias, ortus, interritus, querelas, lamentationes,- 
effusas in omni intemperantia. libidines, adulteria, 
vincula, cum humano genere concubitus, mor- 
talesque ex immortali procreatos.' — ' Nor are 
those things much more absurd, which, flowing 
from the poet's tongue, have done mischief even 
by the sweetness of his expression. The poets 
have introduced gods inflamed with anger and 
enraged with lust ; and even produced before our 
eyes their wars, their wrangling, their duels, and 
their wounds. They have exposed, besides, their 
antipathies, animosities, and dissensions ; their 
origin and death ; their complaints and lamenta- 
tions ; their appetites indulged to all manner of 
excess, their adulteries, their fetters, their amor- 
ous commerce with the human species, and from 
immortal parents derived a mortal offspring.' 

As the festivals of the gods necessarily pro- 
duced good cheer, which often carried to riot and 
debauchery, mirth of consequence prevailed ; and 
this was always attended with buffoonery. Taunts 
and jokes, and raillery and repartee, would neces- 
sarily ensue ; and individuals would contend for 
the victory in wit and genius. These contests 
would in time be reduced to some regulations, for 
the entertainment of the people thus assembled, 
and some prize would be decreed to him who was 
judged to excel his rivals. The candidates for 
fame and profit being thus stimulated, would 
task their talents, and naturally recommend these 
alternate recriminations to the audience, by cloth- 
ing them with a kind of poetical measure, which 
should bear a near resemblance to prose. Thus, 
as the solemn service of the day was composed in 
the most sublime species of poetry, such as the 
ode or hymn, the subsequent altercation was car- 
ried on in iambics, and gave rise to satire. We 
are told by the Stagirite, that the highest species 
of poetry was employed in celebrating great ac- 
tions, but the humbler sort used in this kind of 
contention ; * and that in the ages of antiquity, 
there were some bards that professed heroics, and 
some that pretended to iambics only. 

* Oi (th yu.% trtp,virt$ot, ret? xeeXcte lutix-cvvTO 
srpic,%u$ — oi £s ivriXiffrtepi, ra.( tun &a.'j\uv t tcgtSmv 
}.iyois iroioZvrif. 



ESSAYS. 



275 



0/ fth fyo'ixuv, el Se loifaGuv trowcu. 
To these rude beginnings we not only owe the 
birth of satire, but likewise the origin of dramatic 
poetry. Tragedy herself, which afterwards at- 
tained to such dignity as to rival the epic muse, 
■was at first no other than a trial of crambo, or 
iambics, between two peasants, and a goat was 
the prize, as Horace calls it, vile certamen ob 
hircum, ' a mean contest for a he-goat.' Hence 
the name r^etyuhiu,, signifying the goat-song, from 
r^ciyo; hircus, and aidy carmen. 

Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit ob hircum, 
Mox etiam agrestes satyros nudavit, et asper 
Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit, eo quod 
Illecebris erat et grata novitate morandus 
Spectator, functusque sacris, et potus et exlex.— Hor. 

The tragic bard, a goat his humble prize 

Bade satyrs naked and uncouth arise; 

His muse severe, secure and undismay'd, 

The rustic joke in solemn strain convey'd; 

For novelty alone he knew could charm 

A lawless crowd, with wine and feasting warm. 

Satire, then, was originally a clownish dialogue 
in loose iambics, so called because the actors were 
disguised like satyrs, who not only recited the 
praises of Bacchus, or some other deity, but inter- 
spersed their hymns with sarcastic jokes and al- 
tercation. Of this kind is the Cyclop of Euripides, 
in which Ulysses is the principal actor. The 
Romans also had their Atcllance, or interludes, 
of the same nature, so called from the city cf 
Atella, where they were first acted; but these 
were highly polished in comparison of the origi- 
nal entertainment.which was altogether ruae and 
innocent. Indeed the Cyclop itself, though com- 
posed by the accomplished Euripides, abounds 
with such impurity as ought not to appear on the 
Btage of any civilized nation. 

It is very remarkable, that the Atellance, which 
were in effect tragi-comedies, grew into such es- 
teem among the Romans, that the performers in 
these pieces enjoyed several privileges which were 
refused to the ordinary actors. They were not 
obliged to unmask, like the other players, when 
their action was disagreeable to the audience. 
They were admitted into the army, and enjoyed 
the privileges of free citizens, without incurring 
that disgrace which was affixed to the characters 
of other actors.* The poet Laberius, who was of 
equestrian order, being pressed by Julius Caesar 
to act a part in his own performance, complied 
with great reluctance, and complained of the dis- 
honour he had incurred, in his prologue preserved 
by Macrobius, which is one of the most elegant 
morsels of antiquity. 

Tragedy and comedy flowed from the same 
fountain, though their streams were soon divided. 
The same entertainment which, under the name 
of tragedy, was rudely exhibited by clowns, for 
the prize of a goat, near some rural altar of Bac- 
chus, assumed the appellation of comedy when it 
was transferred into cities, and represented with 
a little more decorum in a cart or wagon that 
strolled from street to street, as the name stuuvtii* 
implies, being derived from xufMj a street, and 

* Cum artem ludicram, scenamque totam probro duce- 
rent genus idhominum non modo honore civium reliquo- 
rum carere, sed etiam tribu moveri notationc ccnsoria 
voluerunt— Cic. apud S. Aug. de Civil. Dei. 



&'§-} a poem. To this origin Horace alludes in 
these lines : 

Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 

Quas canerent agerentque peruncti faecibus ora. 

Thespis, inventor of dramatic art, 

Convey'd his vagrant actors in a cart : 

High o'er the crowd the mimic tribe appeared. 

And play'd and sung, with lees of wine besmear'd. 

Thespis is called the inventor of the dramatic 
art, because he raised the subject from clownish 
altercation to the character and exploits of some 
hero : he improved the language and versification, 
and relieved the chorus by the dialogue of two 
actors. This was the first advance towards that 
consummation of genius and art, which consti- 
tutes what is now called a perfect tragedy. The 
next great improver was iEschylus, of whom the 
same critic says : 

Post hunc personae pallasque repertor honestas 
JEscbylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis; 
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. 

Then ^Gschylus a decent vizard used, 
Built a low stage, the flowing robe diffused: 
In language more sublime the actors rage, 
And in the graceful buskin tread the stage. 

The dialogue which Thespis introduced was 
called the Episode, because it was an addition to 
the former subject, namely, the praises of Bacchus ; 
so that now tragedy consisted of two distinct 
parts, independent of each other ; the old recita- 
tive, which was the chorus, sung in honour of the 
gods ; and the episode, which turned upon the 
adventures of some hero. This episode being 
found very agreeable to the people, .Eschylus, 
who lived about half a century after Thespis, still 
improved the drama, united the chorus to the 
episode, so as to make them both parts or mem- 
bers of one fable, multiplied the actors, contrived 
the stage, and introduced the decorations of the 
theatre ; so that Sophocles, who succeeded iEschy- 
lus, had but one step to surmount in order to 
bring the drama to perfection. Thus tragedy was 
gradually detached from its original institution, 
which was entirely religious. The priests of 
Bacchus loudly complained of this innovation by 
means of the episode, which was foreign to the 
intention of the chorus; and hence arose the 
proverb of Nihil ad Dionysium, ' Nothing to the 
purpose.' Plutarch himself mentions the epi- 
sode, as a perversion of tragedy from the honour 
of the gods to the passions of men. But notwith- 
standing all opposition, the new tragedy succeeded 
to admiration; because it was found the most 
pleasing vehicle of conveying moral truths, of 
meliorating the heart, and extending the interests 
of humanity. 

Comedy, according to Aristotle, is the younger 
sister of Tragedy. As the first originally turned 
upon the praises of the gods, the latter dwelt on the 
follies and vices of mankind. Such, we mean, was 
the scope of that species of poetry which acquired 
the name of comedy, in contradiction to the tragic 
muse; for in the beginning they were the same. 
The foundation upon which comedy was built, 
we have already explained to be the practice of 
satirical repartee or altercation, in which indi- 
viduals exposed the follies and frailties of each 
other on public occasions of worship and fes- 
tivity. 



276 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORK* 



The first regular plan of comedy is said to have 
been the Margites of Homer, exposing the idleness 
and folly of a worthless character; but of this 
performance we have no remains. That division 
which is termed the ancient comedy, belongs to 
the labours of Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristo- 
phanes, who were contemporaries, and flourished 
at Athens about four hundred and thirty years 
before the Christian era. Such was the licence of 
the muse at this period, that, far from lashing 
vice in general characters, she boldly exhibited 
the exact portrait of every individual who had 
rendered himself remarkable or notorious by his 
crimes, folly, or debauchery. She assumed every 
circumstance of his external appearance, his very 
attire, air, manner, and even his name; according 
to the observation of Horace, 

"'. . . Poetae 

. .... quorum comoedia prisca virorum est: 
Si quis erat dignus describi, quod malus, aut fur, 
Quod racechus foret, aut sicarius, aut alioqui 
Famosus, multa cum libertate notabant. 

The comic poete, in its earliest age, 
Who form'd the manners of the Grecian stage- 
Was there a villain, who misht justly claim 
A better right of being damn'd to fame, 
Rake, cut-throat, thief, whatever was his crime, 
They boldly stigmatized the wretch in rhyme. 

Eupolis is said to have satirized Alcibiades in this 
manner, and to have fallen a sacrifice to the re- 
sentment of that powerful Athenian : but others 
say he was drowned in the Hellespont, during a 
war against the Lacedemonians ; and that in con- 
sequence of this accident the Athenians passed 
a decree that no poet should ever bear arms. 

The comedies of Cratinus are recommended by 
Quintilian for their eloquence ; and Plutarch tells 
us, that even Pericles himself could not escape the 
censure of this poet. 

Aristophanes, of whom there are eleven come- 
dies still extant, enjoyed such a pre-eminence of 
reputation, that the Athenians, by a public decree, 
honoured him with a crown made of a consecrated 
olive tree, which grew in the citadel, for his care 
and success in detecting and exposing the vices 
of those who governed the commonwealth. Yet 
this poet, whether impelled by mere -wantonness 
of genius, or actuated by malice and envy, could 
not refrain from employing the shafts of his ridi- 
cule against Socrates, the most venerable charac- 
ter of Pagan antiquity. In the comedy of The 
Clouds, this virtuous philosopher was exhibited 
on the stage, under his own name, in a cloak 
exactly resembling that which Socrates wore, in a 
mask modelled from his features, disputing pub- 
licly on the nature of right and wrong. This was 
undoubtedly an instance of the most flagrant li- 
centiousness; and what renders it the more ex- 
traordinary, the audience received it with great 
applause, even while Socrates himself sat publicly 
in the theatre. The truth is, the Athenians were 
so fond of ridicule, that they relished it even when 
employed against the gods themselves, some of 
whose characters were very roughly handled by 
Aristophanes and his rivals in reputation. 

We might here draw a parallel between the 
inhabitants of Athens and the natives of England 
in point of constitution, genius, and disposition. 
Athens was a free state like England, that piqued 
itself upon the influence of the democracy. Like 



England, its wealth and strength depended upon 
its maritime power; and it generally acted as 
umpire in the disputes that arose among its 
neighbours. The people of Athens, like those of 
England, were remarkably ingenious, and made 
great progress in the arts and sciences. They 
excelled in poetry, history, philosophy, mecha- 
nics, and manufactures; they were acute, dis- 
cerning, disputatious, fickle, wavering, rash, and 
combustible, and, above all other nations in 
Europe, addicted to ridicule ; a character which 
the English inherit in a very remarkable degree. 

If we may judge from the writings of Aristo- 
phanes, his chief aim was to gratify the spleen 
and excite the mirth of his audience ; of an au- 
dience, too, that would seem to have been unin- 
formed by taste, and altogether ignorant of deco- 
rum ; for his pieces are replete with the most 
extravagant absurdities, virulent slander, impiety, 
impurities, and low buffoonery. The comic muse, 
not contented with being allowed to make free 
with the gods and philosophers, applied her 
scourge so severely to the magistrates of the com- 
monwealth, that it was thought proper to restrain 
her within bounds by a law, enacting, that no 
person should be stigmatized under his real name; 
and thus the chorus was silenced. In order to 
elude the penalty of this law, and gratify the taste 
of the people, the poets began to substitute fic- 
titious names, under which they exhibited parti 
cular characters in such lively colours, that the 
resemblance could not possibly be mistaken or 
overlooked. This practice gave rise to what is 
called the Middle Comedy, which was but of 
short duration ; for the legislature, perceiving 
that the first law had not removed the grievance 
against which it was provided, issued a second 
ordinance, forbidding, under severe penalties, any 
real or family occurrences to be represented. This 
restriction was the immediate cause of improving 
comedy into a general minor, held forth to reflect 
the various follies and foibles incident to human 
nature ; a species of writing called the New Co 
medy, introduced by Diphilus and Menander, o 
whose works nothing but a few fragments remain 



ESSAY XVI. 

Having communicated our sentiments touching 
the origin of poetry, by tracing tragedy and 
comedy to their common source, we shall now 
endeavour to point out the criteria by which poetry 
is distinguished from every other species of 
writing. In common with other arts, such as 
statuary and painting, it comprehends imitation, 
invention, composition, and enthusiasm. Imita- 
tion is indeed the basis of all the liberal arts ; in- 
vention and enthusiasm constitute genius, in 
whatever manner it may be displayed. Eloquence 
of all sorts admits of enthusiasm. Tully says, 
an orator should be ' vehemens ut procella, exci- 
tatus ut torrens, incensus ut fulmen : tonat, ful- 
gurat, et rapidis eloquentias fluctibus cuncta pro- 
ruit et proturbat.' — ' Violent as a tempest, impe- 
tuous as a torrent, and glowing intense like the 
red bolt of heaven, he thunders, lightens, over- 
throws, and bears down all before him, by the 
irresistible tide of eloquence.' This is the mens 



ESSAYS. 



277 



divinior atque os magna sonaturum of Horace 
This is the talent, 

.... Meum qui pectus inaniter angit, 
Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet, 
Ut magus. 

With passions not my own who fires my heart; 
Who with unreal terrors fills my breast, 
As with a magic influence possess'd. 

We are told, that Michael Angelo Buonaroti used 
to work at his statues in a fit of enthusiasm, 
during which he made the fragments of the stone 
fly about him with surprising violence. The 
celebrated Lully being one r'ay blamed for setting 
nothing to music but the languid verses of Qui- 
nault, was animated with the reproach, and run- 
ning in a fit of enthusiasm to his harpsichord, 
sang in recitative, and accompanied four pathetic 
lines from the Iphigenia of Racine, with such 
expression as filled the hearers with astonish- 
ment and horror. 

Though versification be one of the criteria that 
distinguish poetry from prose, yet it is not the 
sole mark of distinction. "Were the histories of 
Polybius and Livy simply turned into verse, they 
would not become poems; because they would be 
destitute of those figures, embellishments, and 
flights of imagination, which display the poet's 
art and invention. On the other hand, we have 
many productions that justly lay claim to the title 
of poetry, without having the advantage of versi- 
fication; witness the Psalms of David, the Song 
of Solomon, with many beautiful hymns, descrip- 
tions, and rhapsodies, to be found in different 
parts of the Old Testament, some of them the 
immediate production of divine inspiration; wit- 
ness the Celtic fragments which have lately ap- 
peared in the English language, and are certainly 
replete with poetical merit. But though good 
versification alone will not constitute poetry, bad 
versification alone will certainly degrade and ren- 
der disgustful the sublimest sentiments and finest 
flowers of imagination. This humiliating power 
of bad verse appears in many translations of the ' 
ancient poets ; in Ogilby's Homer, Trapp's Virgil, 
and frequently in Creech's Horace. This last, 
indeed, is not wholly devoid of spirit; but it sel- 
dom rises above mediocrity, and, as Horace says, 

.... Mediocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columns. 

But God and man, and letter'd post denies, 
That 1 oets ever are of middling size. 

How is that beautiful ode, beginning with Justum 
et tenacem propositi virum, chilled and tamed by 
the following translation : — 

He who by principle is sway'd, 

In truth and justice still the same, 

Is neither of the crowd afraid, 

Though civil broils the state inflame; 

Nor to a haughty tyrant's frown will stoop, 

Nor to a raging storm, when all the winds are up. 

Should nature with convulsions shake, 
£lruck with' the fiery bolts of Jove, 
The final doom and dreadful crack 
Cannot his constant courage move. 

That long Alexandrine — ' Nor to a raging storm, 
when all the winds are up,' is drawling, feeble, 



swoln with a pleonasm or tautology, as well as de- 
ficient in the rhyme; and as for the 'dreadful 
crack,' in the next stanza, instead of exciting 
terror, it conveys a low and ludicrous idea. How- 
much more elegant and energetic is this para- 
phrase of the same ode, inserted in one of the 
volumes of Hume's History of England: 

The man whose mind, on virtue bent, 
Pursues some greatly good intent 

With undiverted aim, 
Serene beholds the angry crowd; 
Nor can their clamours fierce and loud 

His stubborn honour tame. 

Nor the proud tyrant's fiercest threat, 
Nor storms that from their dark retreat 

The lawless surges wake; 
Nor Jove's dread bolt, that shakes the pole, 
The firmer purpose of his soul 

With all its power can shake. 

Should nature's frame in ruins fall, 
And chaos o'er the sinking ball 

Resume primeval sway, 
His courage chance and fate defies, 
Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies 

Obstruct its destined way. 

If poetry exists independent of versification, it 
will naturally be asked, how then is it to be dis- 
tinguished ? Undoubtedly by its own peculiar ex- 
pression : it has a language of its own, which 
speaks so feelingly to the heart, and so pleasingly 
to the imagination, that its meaning cannot pos- 
sibly be misunderstood by any person of delicate 
sensations. It is a species of painting with 
words, in which the figures are happily conceived, 
ingeniously arranged, affectingly expressed, and 
recommended with all the warmth and harmony 
of colouring: it consists of imagery, description, 
metaphors, similes, and sentiments, adapted with 
propriety to the subject, so contrived and exe- 
cuted as to soothe the ear, surprise and delight the 
fancy, mend and melt the heart, elevate the mind, 
and please the understanding. According to 
Flaccus : 



Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetee; 
Aut simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae. 

Poets would profit or delight mankind, 

And with th' amusing shew th' instructive join'd. 

Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo. 

Profit and pleasure mingled thus with art, 
To sooth the fancy and improve the heart. 

Tropes and figures are likewise liberally used 
in rhetoric; and some of the most celebrated 
orators have owned themselves much indebted to 
the poets. Theophrastus expressly recommends 
the poets for this purpose. From their source, 
the spirit and energy of the pathetic, the sublime, 
and the beautiful, are derived. But these figures 
must be more sparingly used in rhetoric than in 
poetry, and even then mingled with argumenta- 
tion, and a detail of facts altogether different frorr 
poetical narration. The poet, instead of simply 
relating the incident, strikes off a glowing picture 
of the scene, and exhibits it in the most lively 
colours to the eye of the imagination. ' It is reported 
that Homer was blind,' says Tully in his Tusculan 
Questions, 'yet his poetry is no other than paint- 
ing. What country, what climate, what ideas, 



278 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



Dattles, commotions, and contests of men, as well 
as of wild beasts, has he not painted in such a 
manner, as to bring before our eyes those very 
scenes which he himself could not behold !' We 
cannot, therefore, subscribe to the opinion of 
some ingenious critics, who have blamed Mr. 
Pope for deviating in some instances from the 
simplicity cf Homer, in his translation of the 
Iliad and Odyssey. For example, the Grecian 
bard says simply, the sun rose; and his translator 
gives us a beautiful picture of the sun rising. 
Homer mentions a person who played upon the 
lyre; the translator sets him before us warbling 
to the silver strings. If this be a deviation, it is 
at the same time an improvement. Homer him- 
self, as Cicero observes above, is full of this kinC 
of painting, and particularly fond of description 
even in situations where the action seems to re 
quire haste. Neptune, observing from Samrv 
thrace the discomfiture of the Grecians before 
Troy, flies to their assistance, and might have 
been wafted thither . in half a line : but the bard 
describes him, first, descending the mountain on 
which he sat; secondly, striding towards his 
palace at iEgae, and yoking his horses ; thirdly, 
he describes him putting on his armour; and, 
lastly, ascending his car, and driving along the 
surface of the sea. Far from being disgusted by 
these delays, we are delighted with the particulars 
of the description. Nothing can be more sublime 
than the circumstance of the mountain trembling 
beneath the footsteps of an immortal : 
.... TgE^s S' ci>%(» fji.a.y,e&. xcu vXvi 
Uotrouv vt' oc.8oti>ctronri Uotrtticiuvos !omr«. 
But his passage to the Grecian fleet is altogether 
transporting. 

Bij S' iXocccv In) z.(/tj,a.T, x. r. X. 

He mounts the car, the golden scourge applies, 
He sits superior, and the chariot flies; 
His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep; 
Th' enormous monsters, rolling o'er the deep, 
Gambol around him on the watery way, 
And heavy whales in awkward measures play: 
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain, 
Exults and crowns the monarch of the main; 
The parting waves before his coursers fly; 
The wond'ring waters leave his axle dry. 

With great veneration for the memory of Mr. 
Pope, we cannot help objecting to some lines of 
this translation. We have no idea of the sea's 
exulting and crowning Neptune, after it had sub- 
sided into a level plain. There is no such image 
in the original. Homer says, the whales exulted, 
and knew, or owned their king ; and that the sea 
parted with joy: y/fiotrl/r/i Ss &ct.\«.<r<rct. ZutrrctTC 
Neither is there a word of the wondering waters : 
we therefore think the lines might be thus altered 
to advantage : 

They knew and own'd the monarch of the maint 
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain; 
The curling waves before his coursers fly; 
The parting surface leaves his brazen axle dry. \ 

Besides the metaphors, similes, and allusions 
of poetry, there is an infinite variety of tropes, or 
turns of expression, occasionally disseminated 
through works of genius, which serve to animate 
the whole, and distinguish the glowing effusions 
of real inspiration from the cold efforts of mere 



science. These tropes consist of a certain happy j 
choice and arrangement of words, by which ideas 
are artfully disclosed in a great variety of at- 
titudes ; of epithets, and compound epithets ; of 
sounds collected in order to echo the sense con- 
veyed; of apostrophes; and, above all, the en- 
chanting use of the prosopopoeia, which is a kind 
of magic, by which the poet gives life and motion 
to every inanimate part of nature. Homer, de- 
scribing the wrath of Agamemnon, in the first 
book of the Iliad, strikes off a glowing image in 
two words : 

.... oifffi V 01 xve) Xoif&srtTOvvTi liamv. 

". . . . and Irom his^ey ebMsJlash'd the living Jlre. 

This indeed is a figure which has been copied by 

Virgil, and almost all the poets of every age 

oculis micat acribus ignis — ignescunt iras : auris 
dolor ossibus ardet. Milton, describing Satan in 
hell, says, 

With head uplift above the wave, and eye 
That sparkling biased — 

... He spake : and to confirm his words out flew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
Of mighty cherubim. The sudden blase 
Far round illumined hell — 

There are certain words in every language par- 
ticularly adapted to the poetical expression ; some 
from the image or idea they convey to the imagin- 
ation, and some from the effect they have upon 
the ear. The first are truly figurative; the others 
may be called emphatical. Rollin observes, that 
Virgil has, upon many occasions, poetized (if we 
may be allowed the expression) a whole sentence 
by means of the same word, which is pendere. 
Ite meae, felix quondam pecus, ite capellae, 
Non ego vos posthac, viridi projectus in antro, 
Dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbo. 
At ease reclined beneath the verdant shade, 
No more shall I behold my happy flock 
Aloft hang browsing on the tufted rock. 

Here the word pendere wonderfully improves the 
landscape, and renders the whole passage beau- 
• tifully picturesque. The same figurative verb we 
meet with in many different parts of the iEneid. 

Hi summo fluctu pendent, his unda dehiscens 
Terram inter fluctus aperit. 
These on the mountain billow hung; to those 
The yawning waves the yellow sand disclose. 

In this instance, the words pendent and dehiscens, 
hung and yawning, are equally poetical. Addison 
seems to have had this passage in his eye, when 
he wrote his Hymn, which is inserted in the 
Spectator : 

. . . For though in dreadful worlds we hung. 
High on the broken wave. 

And, in another piece of a like nature in the 
same collection : 

Thy providence my life sustain'd, 

And all my wants redress'd. 
When in the silent womb I lay, 

And hung upon the breast. 

Shakspeare, in his admired description of Dover 
cliff, uses the same expression : 

.... half way down 
Hangs one that gathers samphire— dreadful tradet 

Nothing can be more beautiful than the following 



ESSAYS. 



279 



picture, in which Milton has introduced the same 
expressive tint : 

.... he, on his side. 
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial lore 
Hung over her enamour'd. 

We shall give one example more from Virgil, 
to shew in what a variety of scenes it may appear 
with propriety and effect. In describing the 
progress of Dido's passion for iEneas, the poet 
says, 

Iliacos iterum demens audire labores 
Exposcit, pendetque iterum narrantis ab ore. 
The woes of Troy once more she begg'd to hear; 
Once more the mournful tale employ'd his tongue, 
While in fond rapture on his lips she hung. 

The reader will perceive, in all these instances, 
that no other word could be substituted with 
equal energy; indeed, no other word could be 
used, without degrading the sense and defacing 
the image. 

There are many other verbs of poetical import 
fetched from nature, and from art, which the poet 
uses to advantage, both in a literal and meta- 
phorical sense ; and these have been always 
translated for the same purpose from one lan- 
guage to another; such as quasso, concutio, cio, 
suscito, lenio, scevio, mano, fluo, ardeo, mico, aro, 
to shake, to wake, to rouse, to soothe, to rage, to 
flow, to shine or blaze, to plough. — Quassantia 
tectum limina — JEneas casu concussus acerbo — 
JEre ciere viros, Martemque accendere cantu — 
JEneas acuit Martem et se suscitat ira — Impium 
lenite clamorem. Lenibant curas — Ne ssevi magne 
sacerdos — Sudor ad imos manabat solos — Suspen- 
sceque diu lachrymae fluxere per ora — Juvenali 
ardebat amore — Micat cereus ensis — Nullum maris 
cequor arandum. It will be unnecessary to insert 
examples of the same nature from the English 
poets. 

The words we term emphatical, are such as by 
their sound express the sense they are intended 
to convey; and with these the Greek abounds, 
above all other languages, not only from its 
natural copiousness, flexibility, and significance, 
but also from the variety of its dialects, which 
enables a writer to vary his terminations occa- 
sionally as the nature of the subject requires, 
without offending the most delicate ear, or in- 
curring the imputation of adopting vulgar pro- 
vincial expressions. Every smatterer in Greek 
can repeat. 

B*J y axiav xoi°a. S-7vot r:oKv^'Koi<rZoio S-u.Xot.e'ir'/;?, 

in which the two last words wonderfully echo to 
the sense, conveying the idea of the sea dashing 
on the shore. How much more significant in 
sound than that beautiful image of Shakspeare — 
The sea that on the unnumber'd pebbles beats. 

And yet, if we consider the strictness of propriety, 
this last expression would seem to have been se- 
lected on purpose to concur with the other circum- 
stances, which are brought together to ascertain 
the vast height of Dover cliff; for the poet adds, 
'cannot be heard so high.' The place where 
Glo'ster stood was so high above the surface of 
the sea, that the <p\o'i<r£o;, or dashing, could not be 
heard; and therefore an enthusiastic admirer of 
Shakspeare might with some plausibility affirm, 



the poet had chosen an expression in which that 
sound is not at all conveyed. 

In the very same page of Homer's Iliad we 
meet with two other striking instances of the 
same sort of beauty. Apollo, incensed at the 
insults his priest had sustained, descends from 
the top of Olympus, with his bow and quiver 
rattling on his shoulder as he moved along: 

* EzKocy^xv S' a.o oitrru \-x' oi fj.wv. 

Here the sound of the word * EzXa,y%a,i> admirably 
expresses the clanking of armour; as the third 
line after this surprisingly imitates the twanging 
of a bow. 

In shrill-toned murmurs sung the twanging bow. 

Many beauties of the same kind are scattered 
through Homer, Pindar, and Theocritus, such as 
the fiofx-Qivo-a, f^tXia-iroc,, susurrans apicula; the 
»d'j "$idC%ie-fM>i, dulcem susurrum; and the piXttr- 
lircti, for the sighing of the pine. 

The Latin language teems with sounds adapted 
to every situation, and the English is not destitute 
of this significant energy. We have the cooing 
turtle, the sighing reed, the warbling rivulet, the 
gliding stream, the whispering breeze, the glance, 
the gleam, the flash, the bickering flame, the 
dashing wave, the gushing spring, the howling 
blast, the rattling storm, the pattering shower, 
the crimp earth, the mouldering tower, the 
tioanging bow-string, the clanging arms, the 
clanking chains, the twinkling stars, the tinkling 
chords, the trickling drops, the twittering swallow, 
the cawing rook, the screeching owl; and a thou- 
sand other words and epithets, wonderfully suited 
to the sense they imply. 

Among the select passages of poetry which we 
shall insert by way of illustration, the reader will 
find instances of all the different tropes and 
figures which the best authors have adopted in 
the variety of their poetical works, as well as of 
the apostrophe, abrupt transition, repetition, and 
prosopopoeia. 

In the meantime, it will be necessary still 
farther to analyze those principles which con- 
stitute the essence of poetical merit; to display 
those delightful parterres that teem with the 
fairest flowers of imagination; and distinguish 
between the gaudy offspring of a cold, insipid 
fancy, and the glowing progeny, diffusing sweets,, 
produced and invigorated by the sun of genius. 



ESSAY XVII. 

Of all the implements of Poetry, the metaphor is 
the most generally and successfully used, and 
indeed may be termed the muse's caduceus, by 
the power of which she enchants all nature. The 
metaphor is a shorter simile, or rather a kind of 
magical coat, by which the same idea assumes a 
thousand different appearances. Thus the word 
plough, which originally belongs to agriculture, 
being metaphorically used, represents the motion 
of a ship at sea, and the effects of old age upon 
the human countenance : 



280 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



.. , . . Plough'd the bosom of the deep — 
And time had plough'd his venerable front. 
Almost every verb, noun substantive, or term 
of art in any language, may be in this manner 
applied to a variety of subjects with admirable 
effect; but the danger is in sowing metaphors 
too thick, so as to distract the imagination of the 
reader, and incur the imputation of deserting 
nature, in order to hunt after conceits. Every 
day produces poems of all kinds, so inflated with 
metaphor, that they may be compared to the 
gaudy bubbles blown up from a solution of soap. 
Longinus is of opinion, that a multitude of 
metaphors is never excusable, except in those 
cases when the passions are roused, and like a 
winter terrent, rush down impetuous, sweeping 
them with collective force along. He brings an 
instance of the following quotation from Demos- 
thenes : — 'Men,' says he, 'profligates, miscreants, 
and flatterers, who having severally preyed upon 
the bowels of their country, at length betrayed 
j her liberty, first to Philip, and now again to 
J Alexander : who, placing the chief felicity of life 
| in the indulgence of infamous lusts and appe- 
tites, overturned in the dust that freedom and 
independence which was the chief aim and end of 
all our worthv ancestors.'* 

Aristotle and Theophrastus seem to think it is 
rather too bold and hazardous to use metaphors 
so freely,, without interposing some mitigating 
phrase ; such as, ' if I may be allowed the expres- 
sion,' or some equivalent excuse. At the same 
time, Longinus finds fault with Plato for hazard- 
ing some metaphors, which, indeed, appear to be 
equally affected and extravagant, when he says, 
'the government of a state should not resemble 
a bowl of hot fermenting wine, but a cool and 
moderate beverage chastised by the sober deity,' — 
a metaphor that signifies nothing more than 
' mixed or lowered with water.' Demetrius Pha- 
lereus justly observes, that though a judicious 
use of metaphors wonderfully raises, sublimes, 
and adorns oratory or elocution, yet they should 
seem to flow naturally from the subject; and too 
great a redundancy of them inflates the discourse 
to a mere rhapsody. The same observation will 
hold in poetry; and the more liberal or sparing 
use of them will depend, in a great measure, on 
the nature of the subject. 

Passion itself is very figurative, and often 
bursts out into metaphors; but, in touching the 
pathos, the poet must be perfectly well acquainted 
with the emotions of the human soul, find care- 
fully distinguish between those metaphors 
which rise glowing from the heart, and those 
cold conceits which are engendered in the fancy. 
Should one of these last unfortunately intervene, 
it will be apt to destroy the whole effect of the 
most pathetical incident or situation. Indeed, it 
requires the most delicate taste, and a consum- 
mate knowledge of propriety, to employ metaphors 
in such a manner as to avoid what the ancients 

xoXecxiz, TixqaiTTi^ioto'fi.tvot tcl; lowTeuv izourroi trcir- 
ip>ot.i, <rr,v iXiuOtfiotn tf£6fti<za)x.0Tls , ^eongov, &iXlsrira), 
vvv S* AAsg«»5§<a, T'/j <ya,trrei /xit%ovvtls z»t rols 
ato-xitrrot; rv,v iv^ot.i/Movi(x.v, t\v £' iXivtii^iocv, aa,i to 
ur/$iv<x, i%itv Slo-toty,)! ocutSJv, a. toi( rrporiqu;,' E,XX?itrw 
6(>oi ruv ocyoc8SJt> %<rxy xat'i xcuiova, z. v. X. 



call the ro •vl'u^ov, the frigid, or false sublime. 
Instances of this kind were frequent even among 
the correct ancients. Sappho herself is blamed 
for using the hyperbole Xivz-ori^oi ^/awj, whiter 
than snow. Demetrius is so nice as to be dis- 
gusted at the simile of swift as the wind ; though, 
in speaking of a race -horse, we know from expe- 
rience that this is not even a hyperbole. He 
would have had more reason to censure that kind 
of metaphor which Aristotle styles x«.t ivigyHtut, 
exhibiting things inanimate as endued with sense 
and reason; such as that of the sharp pointed 
arrow, eager to take wing among the crowd : 
o %vj3iXr,s it.ot.ff o,t«Xey est/tt£<7-0«/ fAtitotivetv. Not but 
that, in descriptive poetry, this figure is often 
allowed and admired. The cruel sword, the ruth- 
less dagger, the ruffian blast, are epithets which fre- 
quently occur. The faithful bosom of the earth, the 
joyous boughs, the trees that admire their images 
reflected in the stream, and many other examples 
of this kind, are found disseminated through the 
works of our best modern poets : yet still they 
must be sheltered under the privilege of the 
poetica licentia ; and, except in poetry, they would 
give offence. 

More chaste metaphors are freely used in all 
kinds of writing; more sparingly in history, and 
more abundantly in rhetoric : we have seen that 
Plato indulges in them even to excess. The 
orations of Demosthenes are animated, and even 
inflamed with metaphors, some of them so bold 
as even to entail upon him the censure of the 
critics. Ton ru Iiv8aivi rci 'eyroet 'eiovn xa,8 ifta/v. 
— 'Then I did not yield to Python the orator, 
when he overflowed you with a tide of eloquence. 
Cicero is still more liberal in the use of them ; he 
ransacks all nature, and pours forth a redundancy 
of figures even with a lavish hand. Even the 
chaste Xenophon, who generally illustrates his 
subject by way of simile, sometimes ventures to 
produce an expressive metaphor, such as part of 
the phalanx fluctuated in the march; and, indeed, 
nothing can be more significant than this word 
iZixCfMHii, to represent a body of men staggered, 
and on the point of giving way. Armstrong has 
used the w or d fluctuate with admirable efficacy, in 
his philosophical poem, entitled The Art of Pre- 
serving Health. 

Oh ! when the growling winds contend, and all 
The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm, 
To sink in warm repose, and hear the ditt 
Howl o'er the steady battlements .... 

The word fluctuate, on this occasion, not only 
exhibits an idea of struggling, but also echoes to 
the sense like the tyei&v ^s H>»x* of Homer; 
which, by-the-by, it is impossible to render into 
English ; for the verb ^ia-eru signifies not only to 
stand erect like prickles, as a grove of lances, but 
also to make a noise like the crashing of armour, 
the hissing of javelins, and the splinters of spears. 

Over and above an excess of figures, a young 
author is apt to run into a confusion of mixed 
metaphors, which leave the sense disjointed, and 
distract the imagination: Shakspeare himself is 
often guilty of these irregularjties. The soliloquy 
in Hamlet, which we have so often heard extolled 
in terms of admiration, is, in our opinion, a heap 
of absurdities, whether we consider the situation, 
the sentiment, the argumentation, or the poetry. 
Hamlet is informed by the Ghost, that his father 



ESSAYS. 



281 



was murdered, and therefore he is tempted to 
murder himself, even after he had promised to 
take vengeance on the usurper, and expressed the 
utmost eagerness to achieve this enterprise. It 
does not appear that he had the least reason to 
wish for death ; but every motive which may be 
supposed to influence the mind of a young prince, 
concurred to render life desirable, — revenge to- 
wards the usurper, love for the fair Ophelia, and 
the ambition of reigning. Besides, when he had 
an opportunity of dying without being accessary 
to his own death — when he had nothing to do 
but, in obedience to his uncle's command, to 
allow himself to be conveyed quietly to England, 
where he was sure of suffering death, — instead of 
amusing himself with meditations on mortality, 
he very wisely consulted the means of self-pre- 
servation, turned the tables upon his attendants, 
and returned to Denmark. But granting him to 
have been reduced to the lowest state of despond- 
ence, surrounded with nothing but horror and 
despair, sick of this life, and eager to tempt 
futurity, we shall see how far he argues like a 
philosopher. 

In order to support this general charge against 
an author so universally held in veneration, 
whose very errors have helped to sanctify his 
character among the multitude, we will descend to 
particulars, and analyze this famous soliloquy. 

Hamlet, having assumed the disguise of mad- 
ness, as a cloak under which he might the more 
effectually revenge his father's death upon the 
murderer and usurper, appears alone upon the 
stage, in a pensive and melancholy attitude, and 
communes with himself in these words : 

To he, or not to be ? that is the question :— • 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And, by opposing, end them ? — To die — to sleep— 

No more : and, by a sleep, to say we end 

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep : 

To sleep ! perchance to dream ! — ay, there's the rub ! 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause : there's the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life : 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The panjjs of despised love, the law's delay 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 

To groan and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, — 

That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne 

No traveller returns, — puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; 

And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. 

We have already observed, that there is not any 
apparent circumstance in the fate or situation of 
Hamlet, that should prompt him to harbour one 
thought of self-murder ; and therefore these ex- 
pressions of despair imply an impropriety in point 
of character. But supposing his condition was 
truly desperate, and he saw no possibility of re- 



pose but in the uncertain harbour of death, let us 
see in what manner he argues on that subject. 
The question is, ' To be, or not to be;' to die by 
my own hand, or live and suffer the miseries of 
life. He proceeds to explain the alternative in 
these terms, ' Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to 
suffer, or endure, the frowns of fortune, or to take 
arms, and by opposing, end them.' Here he de- 
viates from his first proposition, and death is no 
longer the question. The only doubt is, whether 
he will stoop to misfortune, or exert his faculties 
in order to surmount it. This surely is the ob- 
vious meaning, and indeed the only meaning that 
can be implied in these words, 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The siings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And by opposing, end them ? 

He now drops this idea, and reverts to his rea- 
soning on death, in the course of which he owns 
himself deterred from suicide by the thoughts of 
what may follow death : 

, .. the dread of something after death,— 
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne 
No traveller returns. 

This might be a good argument in a Heathen or 
Pagan, and such indeed Hamlet really was ; but 
Shakspeare has already represented him as a good 
Catholic, who must have been acquainted with 
the truths of revealed religion, and says expressly 
in this very play, 

.... had not the Everlasting fix'd 
His canon 'gainst self-murder. 

Moreover, he had just been conversing with 
his father's spirit piping hot from purgatory, 
which we presume is not within the bourne of this 
world. The dread of what may happen after 
death, says he, 

Makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of. 

This declaration at least implies some know- 
ledge of the other world, and expressly asserts, 
that there must be ills in that world, though what 
kind of ills they are, we do not know. The argu- 
ment, therefore, may be reduced to this lemma : 
this world abounds with ills which I feel; the 
other world abounds with ills, the nature of which 
I do not know ; therefore, I will rather bear those 
ills I have, ' than ily to others which I know not 
of:' a deduction amounting to a certainty, with 
respect to the only circumstance that could create 
a doubt, namely, whether in death he should rest 
from his misery ; and if he was certain there were 
evils in the next world, as well as in this, he had 
no room to reason at all about the matter. What 
alone could justify his thinking on this subject, 
would have been the hope of flying from the ills 
of this world, without encountering any others in 
the next. 

Nor is Hamlet more accurate in the following 
reflection : 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. 

A bad conscience will make us cowards ; but a 
good conscience will make us brave. It does not 
appear that any thing lay heavy on his conscience ; 
and from the premises we cannot help inferring, 



282 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



that conscience in this case was entirely out of 
the question. Hamlet was deterred from suicide 
by a full conviction, that, in flying from one sea 
of troubles which he did know, he should fall into 
another which he did not know. 

His whole chain of reasoning, therefore, seems 
inconsistent and incongruous. 'I am doubtful 
whether I should live, or do violence upon my own 
life ; for I know not whether it is more honourable 
to bear misfortune patiently, than to exert myself 
in opposing misfortune, and by opposing, end it.' 
Let us throw it into the form of a syllogism, it 
will stand thus : ' I am oppressed with ills ; I 
know not whether it is more honourable to bear 
those ills patiently, or to end them by taking arms 
against them : ergo, I am doubtful whether I 
should slay myself or live. To die, is no more 
than to sleep ; and to say that by a sleep we end 
the heartache,' &c. ' 'tis a consummation devoutly 
to be wished.' Now to say it, was of no conse- 
quence, unless it had been true. ' I am afraid of 
the dreams that may happen in that sleep of 
death ; and I choose rather to bear those ills I 
have in this life, than fly to other ills in that 
undiscovered country, from whose bourne no tra- 
veller ever returns. I have ills that are almost 
insupportable in this life. I know not what is in 
the next, because it is an undiscovered country : 
ergo, I'd rather bear those ills I have, than fly to 
others which I know not of.' Here the conclu- 
sion is by no means warranted by the premises. 
' I am sore afflicted in this life; but I will rather 
bear the afflictions of this life, than plunge my- 
self in the afflictions of another life : ergo, con- 
science makes cowards of us all.' But this con- 
clusion would justify the logician in saying, negatur 
consequens ; for it is entirely detached both from 
the major and minor proposition. 

This soliloquy is not less exceptionable in the 
propriety of expression, than in the chain of ar- 
gumentation. 'To die — to sleep — no more,' con- 
tains an ambiguity, which all the art of punctua- 
tion cannot remove ; for it may signify that ' to 
die,' is to sleep no more ; or the expression ' no 
more,' may be considered as an abrupt apostrophe 
in thinking, as if he meant to say ' no more of 
that reflection.' 

' Ay, there's the rub,' is a vulgarism beneath 
the dignity of Hamlet's character, and the words 
that follow leave the sense imperfect : 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause. 
Not the dreams that might come, but the fear of 
what dreams might come, occasioned the pause or 
hesitation. Respect in the same line may be al- 
lowed to pass for consideration : but 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
.according to the invariable acceptation of the 
words wrong and contumely, can signify nothing 
but the wrongs sustained by the oppressor, and 
the contumely or abuse thrown upon the proud 
man; though it is plain" that Shakspeare used 
them in a different sense : neither is the word 
spurn a substantive, yet as such he has inserted it 
in these lines : 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes. 

If we consider the metaphors of the soliloquy, 



we shall find them jumbled together in a strange 
confusion. 

If the metaphors were reduced to painting, we 
should find it a difficult task, if not altogether im- 
practicable, to represent with any propriety out- 
rageous fortune using her slings and arrows, be- 
tween which, indeed, there is no sort of analogy 
in nature. Neither can any figure be more ridi- 
culously absurd than that of a man taking arms 
against a sea, exclusive of the incongruous med- 
ley of slings, arrows, and seas, justled within the 
compass of one reflection. What follows is a 
strange rhapsody of broken images of sleeping, 
dreaming, and shifting, off a coil, which last con- 
veys no idea that can be represented on canvass. 
A man may be exhibited shuffling off his gar- 
ments, or his chains ; but how he should shuffle 
off a coil, which is another term for noise and 
tumult, we cannot comprehend. Then we have 

* long-lived calamity,' and ' time armed with 
whips and scorns ;' and ' patient merit spurned 
at by unworthiness ;' and ' misery with a bare 
bodkin going to make his own quietus,' which at 
best is but a mean metaphor. These are followed 
by figures, ' sweating under fardels of burdens,' 
' puzzled with doubts,' ' shaking with fears,' and 

* flying from evils.' Finally, we see ' resolution 
sicklied o'er with pale thought,' a conception like 
that of representing health by sickness ; and a 
' current of pith turned awry so as to lose the 
name of action,' which is both an error in fancy, 
and a solecism in sense. In a word, the soliloquy 
may be compared to the JEgri somnia, and the 
Tabula, cujus vance fingentur species. 

But while we censure the chaos of broken, in- 
congruous metaphors, we ought also to caution 
the young poet against the opposite extreme of 
pursuing a metaphor, until the spirit is quite ex- 
hausted in a succession of cold conceits ; such as 
we see in the following letter, said to be sent by 
Tamerlane to the Turkish emperor Bajazet. 
'Where is the monarch that dares oppose our 
arms? Where is the potentate who doth not 
glory in being numbered among our vassals ? As 
for thee, descended from a Turcoman mariner, 
since the vessel of thy unbounded ambition hath 
been wrecked in the gulf of thy self-love, it would 
be proper that thou shouldst furl the sails of thy 
temerity, and cast the anchor of repentance in the 
port of sincerity and justice, which is the harbour 
of safety ; lest the tempest of our vengeance make 
thee perish in the sea of that punishment thou 
hast deserved.' 

But if these laboured conceits are ridiculous in 
poetry, they are still more inexcusable in prose ; 
such as we find them frequently occur in Strada's 
Bellum Belgicum: ' Vix descenderat a pnetoria 
navi Caesar ; cum fceda ilico exorta in portu tem- 
pestas ; classem impetu disjecit, piaetoriam hau- 
sit ; quasi non vecturam amplius Caesarem Csesar- 
isque fortunam.' — 'Caesar had scarcely set his 
feet on shore, when a terrible tempest arising, 
shattered the fleet even in the harbour, and sent 
to the bottom the praetorian ship, as if he resolved 
it should no longer carry Caesar and his fortunes.' 

Yet this is modest in comparison of the follow- 
ing flowers : ' Alii, pulsis e tormento catenis dis- 
cerpti sectique, dimidiato corpore pugnabant sibi 
superstites, ac peremptae partis ultores.' — ' Others, 
dissevered and cut in twain by chain-shot, fought 



ESSAYS. 



283 



■with one half of their bodies that remained, in 
revenge of the other half that was slain.' 

Homer, Horace, and even the chaste Virgil, is 
not free from conceits. The latter, speaking of a 
man's hand cut off in battle, says, 

Te decisa suum, Laride, dextera quaerit: 
Semianimesque inicant digiti, ferrumque retractant: 

thus enduing the amputated hand with sense and 
volition. This, to be sure, is a violent figure, 
and hath been justly condemned by some accu- 
rate critics; but we think they are too severe in 
extending the same censure to some other pas- 
sages in the most admired authors. 
Virgil, in his sixth Eclogue, says, 

Omnia quae, Phoebo quondam meditante, beatus 
Audiit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros, 
Ille canit. 

Whate'er, when Phoebus bless'd the Arcadian plain, 
Eurotas heard and taught his bays the strain, 
The senior sung — 

And Pope has copied the conceit in his Pastorals: 

Thames heard the numbers as he flovv'd along. 
And bade his willows learn the mourning song. 

Vida thus begins his first Eclogue : 

Dicite, vos musae, et juvenum memorate querelas; 

Dicite: nammotas ipsas ad carmina cautes, 

Et requiesse suos p.erhibent vaga flumina cursus. 

Say, heavenly muse, their youthful frays rehearse; 
Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse; 
Exulting rocks have own'd the power of song, 
And rivers listen'd as they flow'd along. 

Racine adopts the same bold figure in his Phaedra: 

Le flot qui l'apporta recule epouvante; 

The wave that bore him, backwards shrunk appal I'd. ' 

Even Milton has indulged himself in the same 
licence of expression : 

As when to" them who sail 

Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 

Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow 

Sabsean odour from the spicy shore 

Of Araby the blest; with such delay 

Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league, 

Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 

Shakspeare says, — 

I've seen 

Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds. 

And indeed more correct writers, both ancient 
and modern, abound with the same kind of figure, 
which is reconciled to propriety, and even in- 
vested with beauty, by the efficacy of the proso- 
popoeia, which personifies the object. Thus, when 
Virgil says Enipeus heard the songs of Apollo, he 
raises up, as by enchantment, the idea of a river 
god crowned with sedges, his head raised above 
the stream, and in his countenance the expres- 
sion of pleased attention. By the same magic 
we see, in the couplet quoted from Pope's Pas- 
torals, old father Thames leaning upon his urn, 
and listening to the poet's strain. 

Thus, in the regions of poetry, all nature, even 
the passions and affections of the mind, may be 
personified into picturesque figures for the enter- 
tainment of the reader. Ocean smiles or frowns, 



as the sea is calm or tempestuous ; a Triton rules 
on every angry billow: every mountain has its 
Nymph ; every stream its Naiad ; every tree its 
Hamadryad ; and every art its Genius. We can- 
not, therefore, assent to those who censure Thom- 
son as licentious for using the following figure : 

O vale of bliss ! O softly swelling hills ! 
On which the power of cultivation lies, 
And joys to see the wonders of his toil. 

We cannot conceive a more beautiful image 
than that of the Genius of Agriculture, distin- 
guished by the implements of his art, imbrowned 
with labour, glowing with health, crowned with a 
garland of foliage, flowers, and fruit, lying 
stretched at his ease on the brow of a gentle swell- 
ing hill, and contemplating with pleasure the 
happy effects of his own industry. 

Neither can we join issue against Shakspeare 
for this comparison, which hath likewise incurred 
the censure of the critics : 

.... The noble sister of Poplicola, 
The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle 
That 's curdled by the frost from purest snow, 
And hangs on Dian's temple — 

This is no more than illustrating a quality of the 
mind, by comparing it with a sensible object. If 
there is no impropriety in saying such a man is 
true as steel, firm as a rock, inflexible as an oak, 
unsteady as the ocean ; or in describing a dispo- 
sition cold as ice, or fickle as the wind — and these 
expressions are justified by constant practice — we 
shall hazard an assertion, that the comparison of 
a chaste woman to an icicle is proper and pic- 
turesque, as it obtains only in the circumstances 
of cold and purity; but that the addition of its 
being curdled from the purest snow, and hanging 
on the temple of Diana, the patroness of virginity, 
heightens the whole into a most beautiful simile, 
that gives a very respectable and amiable idea of 
the character in question. 

The simile is no more than an extended meta- 
phor, introduced to illustrate and beautify the 
subject ; it ought to be apt, striking, properly 
pursued, and adorned with all the graces of poeti- 
zal melody. But a simile of this kind ought never 
to proceed from the mouth of a person under any 
great agitation of spirit ; such as a tragic charac- 
ter overwhelmed with grief, distracted by con- 
tending cares, or agonizing in the pangs of death. 
The language of passion will not admit simile, 
which is always the result of study and deli- 
beration. We will not allow a hero the privilege 
of a dying swan, which is said to chant its ap- 
proaching fate in the most melodious strain ; and 
therefore nothing can be more ridiculously unna- 
tural, than the representation of a lover dying 
upon the stage with a laboured simile in his 
mouth. 

The orientals, whose language was extremely 
figurative, have been very careless in the choice 
of their similes ; provided the resemblance ob- 
tained in one circumstance, they minded not whe- 
ther they disagreed with the subject in every other 
respect. Many instances of this defect in con- 
gruity may be culled from the most sublime parts 
of Scripture. 

Homer has been blamed for the bad choice of 
his similes on some particular occasions. He 
compares Ajax to an ass, in the Iliad, and Ulysses 



',84 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



to a steak broiling on the coals, in the Odyssey. 
His admirers have endeavoured to excuse him, 
by reminding us of the simplicity of the age in 
■which he wrote ; but they have not been able to 
prove that any ideas of dignity or importance 
were, even in those days, affixed to the character 
of an ass, or the quality of a beef coilop; there- 
fore, they were very improper illustrations for any 
situation, in which a hero ought to be represented. 
Virgil has degraded the wife of king Latinus, 
by comparing her, when she was actuated by the 
Fury, to a top which the boys lash for diversion. 
This, doubtless, is a low image, though in other 
respects the comparison is not destitute of pro- 
priety ; but he is much more justly censured for 
the following simile, which has no sort of refer- 
ence to the subject. Speaking of Turn us, he 
says,— 

.... medio dux agmine Turnus 
Vertitur arma tenens, et toto vettice supra est: — 
Ceu septem surgens sedatis amnibus altus 
Per taciturn Ganges: aut pingui flumine Nilus 
Cum refluit campis, et jam se condidit alveo. 

But Turnus, chief amidst the warrior train, 
In armour towers the tallest on the plain. 
The Ganges, thus by seven rich streams supplied, 
A mighty mass devolves in silent pride; 
Thus Nilus pours from his prolific urn, 
When from the fields o'erfiow'd his vagrant streams 
return. 

These, no doubt, are majestic images; but. thpy 
bear no sort of resemblance to a hero glittering 
in armour at the head of his forces. 

Horace has been ridiculed by some shrewd cri- 
tics for this comparison, which, however, we 
think is more defensible than the former. Ad- 
dressing himself to Munatius Plancus, he says : 

Albus ut obscuro deterget nubila ccelo 
Saepe Notus, neque parturit imbres 

Perpetuos: sic tu sapiens finire memento 
Tristitiam, vit<eque labores 

Molli, Planee, mero 

As Notus often, when the welkin lowers, 

Sweeps oft' the clouds, nor teems perpetual showers, 

So let thy wisdom, free from anxious strife, 

In mellow wine dissolve the cares of life. — Dunkti*. 

The analogy, it must be confessed, is not very 
striking; but, nevertheless, it is not altogether 
void of propriety. The poet reasons thus : as the 
south wind, though generally attended with rain, 
is often known to dispel the clouds, and render 
the weather serene ; so do you, though generally 
on the rack of thought, remember to relax some- 
times, and drown your cares in wine. As the 
south wind is not always moist, so you ought not 
always to be dry. 

A few instances of inaccuracy, or mediocrity, 
can never derogate from the superiarive merit 
of Homer and Virgil, whose poems are the great 
magazines, replete with every species of beauty 
and magnificence, particularly abounding with 
similes, which astonish, delight, and transport 
the reader. 

Every simile ought not only to be well adapted 
to the subject, but also to include every excel- 
lence of description, and to be coloured with the 
warmest tints of poetry. Nothing can be more 
happily hit off than the following in the Georgics, 
to which the poet compares Orpheus lamenting 
his .ost Eurydice : 



Qualis populea mcerens Philomela sub umbr4 

Amissos queritur foetus, quos durus arator 

Observans nido implumes detraxit; at ilia 

Flet noctem, ramoque sedens miserable carmen 

Integrat, et mcestis late loca questibus implet. 

So Philomela, from th' umbrageous wood, 

In strains melodious mourns her tender brood, 

Snatch'd from the nest by some rude ploughman's hand, 

On some lone bough the warbler takes her stund; 

The live- long night she mourns the cruel wrong, 

And hill and dale resound the plaintive song. 

Here Ave not only find the most scrupulous pro- 
priety, and the happiest choice, in comparing the 
Thracian bard to Philomel, the poet of the grove; 
but also the most beautiful description, contain- 
ing a fine touch of the pathos — in which last par- 
ticular, indeed, Virgil, in our opinion, excels all 
other poets, whether ancient or modern. 

One would imagine that nature had exhausted 
itself, in order to embellish the poems of Homer, 
Virgil, and Milton, with similes and metaphors. 
The first of these very often uses the comparison 
of the wind, the whirlwind, the hail, the torrent, 
to express the rapidity of his combatants; but 
when he comes to describe the velocity of the 
immortal horses that drew the chariot of Juno, 
he raises his ideas to the subject, and, as Longi- 
nus observes, measures every leap by the whole 
breadth of the horizon. 

"Otrtrov $ '/iigotiot; a.vr,% idtv c<p8/x,X/x.oi<rtii 
"Hictvos Iv <rv,om-/], Kiva-rrojv l-r) oivontx. tovtov, 
Toirtrov itrt8qoiitrz.ouiri Osmv i/'^/'zxiti 'Wjtm. 

For, as a watchman, from some rock on high, 
O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye; 
Through such a space of air, with thund'ring sound, 
At ev'ry leap th' immortal coursers bound. 

The celerity of this goddess seems to be a favour- 
ite idea with the poet; for, in another place, he 
compares it to the thought of a traveller revolv- 
ing in his mind the different places he had seen, 
and passing through them, in imagination, more 
swift than the lightning flies from east to west. 

Homer's best similes have been copied by Virgil, 
and almost every succeeding poet, howsoever 
they may have varied in the manner of expres- 
sion. In the third book of the Iliad , Menelaus 
seeing Paris, is compared to a hungry lion espy- 
ing a hind or goat : 

Euguv 7i tAottpov xi^wov, v ccy^iov, ix.iyoc., a. r. A. 

Sr So joys the lion, if a branching deer 
i Or mountain goat his bulky prize appear; 
f In vain the youths oppose, the mastiffs bay— 
The lordly savage rends the panting prey. 
Thus, fond of vengeance, with a furious bound, 
In clanging arms he leaps upon the ground. 

The Mantuan bard, in the tenth book of the 
jEneid, applies the same simile to Mezentius, 
when he beholds Acron in the battle ; 

Impastus stabula alta leo ceu ssepe peragrans 
(Suadet enim vesana fames) si forte fugacem 
Conspexit capream. aut surgentem in cornua cervum; 
Gaudet hians immane, comasque arrexit, et hseret 
Visceribus super accumbens: lavit improba teter 



Ora cruor 

Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds 

A gamesome goat who frisks about the folds. 

Or beamy stag that grazes on the plain; 

He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane: 

He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws, 

The prey lies panting underneath his paws; 



ESSAYS. 



285 



He fills his famish'd maw, his mouth runs o'er 
With unchew'd morsels, while he churns the gore. 

Drydek. 

The reader will perceive, that Virgil has im- 
proved the simile in one particular, and in ano- 
ther fallen short of his original. The description 
of the lion shaking his mane, opening his hideous 
jaws distained with the blood of his prey, is great 
and picturesque ; but, on the other hand, he has 
omitted the circumstance of devouring it without 
being intimidated, or restrained by the dogs and 
youths that surround him — a circumstance that 
adds greatly to our idea of his strength, intrepid- 
ity, and importance. 



ESSAY XVIII. 

Of all the figures in poetry, that called the hy- 
perbole is managed with the greatest difficulty. 
The hyperbole is an exaggeration with which the 
muse is indulged for the better illustration of her 
subject, when she is warmed into enthusiasm. 
Quintilian calls it an ornament of the bolder kind. 
Demetrius Phalereus is still more severe. He 
says the hyperbole is, of all forms of speech, the 
most frigid; MoiXitrrot dl % 'Tcri^SoXi] •^/vx^orce.rov 
x&vrw. but this must be understood with some 
grains of allowance. Poetry is animated by the 
passions ; and all the passions exaggerate. Pas- 
sion itself is a magnifying medium. There are 
beautiful instances of the hyperbole in the Scrip- 
ture, which a reader of sensibility cannot read 
without being strongly affected. The difficulty 
lies in choosing such hyperboles as the subject 
will admit of; for, according to the definition of 
Theophrastus, the frigid in style is that which 
exceeds the expression suitable to the subject. 
The judgment does not revolt against Homer for 
representing the horses of Ericthonius running 
over the standing corn without breaking off the 
heads, because the whole is considered as a fable, 
and the north.wind is represented as their sire ; 
but the imagination is a little startled, when 
Virgil, in imitation of this hyperbole, exhibits 
Camilla as flying over it without even touching 
the tops. 

Ilia vel intactae segetis per summa volaret 
Gramina .... 

This elegant author, we are afraid, has upon 
some other occasions, degenerated into the frigid, 
in straining to improve upon his great master. 

Homer, in the Odyssey, a work which Lon- 
ginus does not scruple to charge with bearing the 
marks of old age, describes a storm in which all 
the four winds were concerned together. 

2u» 5' 'Evqos rt, Noto? r tatffi, Zt<pv°6; rs ^ua-ocr,;, 

We know that such a contention of contrary 
blasts could not possibly exist in nature ; for, 
even in hurricanes, the winds blow alternately 
from different points of the compass. Never- 
theless, Virgil adopts the description, and adds to 
its extravagance. 

Incubuere mari, totumque a sedibus'imis 

Una Eurusque Notusque ruunt, creberque procellis 

Af-icus. 



Here the winds not only blow together, but they I 
turn the whole body of the ocean topsy-turvy : 

East. west, and south, engage with furious sweep, 
And from its lowest bed upturn the foaming deep. 

The north wind, however, is still more mis- 
chievous : 

.... Stridens aquilone procella 
Velum adversa ferit, fluctusque ad sidera tollit. 
The sail then Boreas rends with hideous cry, 
And whirls the rnadd'ning billows to the sky. 

The motion of the sea between Scylla and 
Charybdis is still more magnified; and -(Etna is 
exhibited as throwing out volumes of flame, 
which brush the stars.* Such expressions as 
these are not intended as a real representation of 
the thing specified: they are designed to strike 
the reader's imagination ; but they generally serve 
as marks of the author's sinking under his own 
ideas, who, apprehensive of injuring the greatness 
of his own conception, is hurried into excess and 
extravagance. 

Quintilian allows the use of hyperbole, when 
words are wanting to express any thing in its 
just strength or due energy : then, he says, it is j 
better to exceed in expression than fall short of 
the conception; but he likewise observes, that 
there is no figure or form of speech so apt to run 
into fustian. ' Nee alia magis via in xdxe^tct* 
itur.' 

If the chaste Virgil has thus trespassed upon 
poetical probability, what can we expect from 
Lucan but hyperboles even more ridiculously ex- 
travagant 1 He represents the winds in contest, 
the sea in suspense, doubting to which it shall 
give way. He affirms, that its motion would 
have been so violent as to produce a second 
deluge, had not Jupiter kept it under by the 
clouds; and as to the ship during this dreadful 
uproar, the sails touch the clouds, while the keel 
strikes the ground. 

Nubila tanguntur velis, et terra carina. 

This image of dashing water at the stars, sir 
Richard Blackmore has produced in colours truly 
ridiculous. Describing spouting whales in his 
Prince Arthur, he makes the following com- 
parison : 

Like some prodigious water-engine made 

To play on heaven, if fire should heaven invade. 

The great fault in all these instances is a de- 
viation from propriety, owing to the erroneous 
judgment of the writer, who, endeavouring to 
captivate the admiration with novelty, very often 
shocks the understanding with extravagance. Of 
this nature is the whole description of the Cyclops, 
both in the Odyssey. of Homer, and in the iEneid 
of Virgil. It must be owned, however, that the 
Latin poet, with all his merit, is more apt than 
his great original to dazzle us with false fire, and 
practise upon the imagination with gay conceits, 
that will not bear the critic's examination. There 
is not in any of Homer's works now subsisting 
Buch an example of the false sublime, as Virgil's 

* Speakifcg of the first, he says, 

Tollimur in coelum eurvato gurgite, et ijdera 
Subducta ad mane? imos descendimus unda. 

Of the other, 

Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. 
R 



286 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



description of the thunderbolts forging under the 
hammers of the Cyclops. 

Tres imbris torti radios, tres nubis aquosas 
Addiderant, rutili tres ignis et alitis Austri. 
Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more, 
Of winged southern winds, and cloudy store, 
As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame. 

Dryden. 

This is altogether a fantastic piece of affectation, 
of which we can form no sensible image, and 
serves to chill the fancy, rather than warm the 
admiration of a judging reader. 

Extravagant hyperbole is a weed that grows in 
great plenty through the works of our admired 
Shakspeare. In the following description, which 
hath been much celebrated, one sees he has had 
an eye to Virgil's thunderbolts. 

Oh, then, I see queen Mab hath been with you. 
She is the fancy's midwife; and she comes, 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
| Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep: 
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinner's legs; 
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's web; 
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams, &c. 

Even in describing fantastic beings there is a pro- 
priety to be observed ; but surely nothing can be 
more revolting to common sense, than this num- 
bering of the moon-beams among the other im- 
plements of queen Mab's harness, which, though 
extremely slender and diminutive, are never- 
theless objects of the touch, and may be conceived 
capable of use. 

The Ode and Satire admit of the boldest hy- 
perboles : such exaggerations suit the impetuous 
warmth of the one; and, in the other, have a 
good effect in exposing folly, and exciting horror 
against vice. They may be likewise successfully 
used in comedy, for moving and managing the 
powers of ridicule. 



ESSAY XIX. 

Verse is a harmonious arrangement of long and 
short syllables, adapted to different kinds of 
poetry, and owes its origin entirely to the mea- 
sured cadence, or music, which was used when 
the first songs and hymns were recited. This 
music, divided into different parts, required a 
regular return of the same measure, and thus 
every strophe, anti-strophe, stanza, contained the 
same number of feet. To know what constituted 
the different kinds of rhythmical feet among the 
ancients, with respect to the number and quantity 
of their syllables, we have nothing to do but to 
consult those who have written on grammar and 
prosody: it is the business of a schoolmaster, 
rather than the accomplishment of a man of taste. 
Various essays have been made in different 
countries to compare the characters of ancient 
and modern versification, and to point out the ! 
difference beyond any possibility of mistake. But ( 
they have made distinctions, where, in fact, there 
was no difference, and left the criterion uhob- I 
served. They have transferred the name of 
rhyme to a regular repetition of the same sound 
at the eud of the line, and set up this vile mo- 



notony as the characteristic of modern verse, in 
contradistinction to the feet of the ancients, which 
they pretend the poetry of modern languages will 
not admit. 

Rhyme, from the Greek word '^v6pu>s, is nothing 
else but number, which was essential to the 
ancient, as well as to the modern versification. 
As to the jingle of similar sounds, though it was 
never used by the ancients in any regular return 
in the middle, or at the end of the line : and was 
by no means deemed essential to the versification, 
yet they did not reject it as a blemish, where it 
occurred without the appearance of constraint. 
We meet with it often in the epithets of Homer; 
A^yvgiioto TSioio — Avaf Avdgonv Aya/xt/avow — almost 
the whole first ode of Anacreon is what we call 
rhyme. The following line of Virgil has been 
admired for the similitude of sound in the first 
two words. 

Ore Arethusz tuo Siculis confunditur undis. 

Rhythmus, or number, is certainly essential to 
verse, whether in the dead or living languages; 
and the real difference between the two is this: 
the number in ancient verse relates to the feet, 
and in modern poetry to the syllables; for to 
assert that modern poetry has no feet, is a ridi- 
culous absurdity. The feet that principally enter 
into the composition of Greek and Latin verses, are 
either of two or three syllables : those of two sylla- 
bles are either both long, as the spondee; or both 
short, as the pyrrhic ; or one short, and the other 
long, as the iambic ; or one long, and the other 
short, as the trochee. Those of three syllables 
are the dactyl, of one long and two short syllables ; 
the anapest, of two short and one long : the 
tribrachium, of three short; and the molossus, of 
three long. 

From the different combinations of these feet, 
restricted to certain numbers, the ancients formed 
their different kinds of verses, such as the hex- 
ameter, or heroic, distinguished by six feet 
dactyls and spondees, the fifth being always a 
dactyl, and the last a spondee : exempli gratid. 

12 3 4 5 6 
Principi-is obs-ta, se-ro medi-cina pa-ratur. 

The pentameter of five feet, dactyls and spondees, 
or of six, reckoning two caesuras. 

12 3 4 5 6 

Cum mala per Ion-gas invalu-ere mo-ras. 

They had likewise the iambic of three sorts, the 
dimeter, the trimeter, and the tetrameter, and all 
the different kinds of lyric verse specified in the 
odes of Sappho, Alcaeus, Anacreon, and Horace. 
Each of these was distinguished by the number, 
as well as by the species of their feet; so that 
they were doubly restricted. Now all the feet of 
the ancient poetry are still found in the versifica- 
tion of living languages: for as cadence was 
regulated by the ear, it was impossible for a man 
to write melodious verse without naturally falling 
into the use of ancient feet, though perhaps he 
neither knows their measure nor denomination. 
Thus Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, 
and all our poets, abound with dactyls, spondees, 
trochees, anapests, &c. which they use indiscrimi- 
nately in all kinds of composition, whether tragic, 
epic, pastoral, or ode, having in this particular 



greatly the advantage of the ancients, who were 
restricted to particular kinds of feet in par- 
ticular kinds of verse. If we, then, are con- 
fined with the fetters of what is called rhyme, 
they were restricted to particular species of feet ; 
so that the advantages and disadvantages are 
pretty equally balanced : but indeed the English 
are more free, in this particular, than any other 
modern nation. They not only use blank verse 
in tragedy and the epic, but even in lyric poetry. 
Milton's translation of Horace's ode to Pyrrha is 
universally known and generally admired, in our 
opinion much above its merit. There is an ode 
extant without rhyme addressed to Evening, by 
the late Mr. Collins, much more beautiful ; and 
Mr. Warton, with some others, has happily suc- 
ceeded in divers occasional pieces, that are free of 
this restraint: but the number in all of these 
depends upon the syllables, and not upon the feet, 
which are unlimited. 

It is generally supposed that the genius of the 
English language will not admit of Greek or Latin 
measure; but this, we apprehend, is a mistake, 
owing to the prejudice of education. It is impos- 
sible that the same measure, composed of the 
same times, should have a good effect upon the 
ear in one language, and a bad effect in another. 
The truth is, we have been accustomed from our 
infancy to the numbers of English poetry, and 
the very sound and signification of the words 
dispose the ear to receive them in a certain 
manner: so that its disappointment must be 
attended with a disagreeable sensation. In im- 
bibing the first rudiments of education, we acquire, 
as it were, another ear for the numbers of Greek 
and Latin poetry, and this being reserved entirely 
for the sounds and significations of the words that 
constitute those dead languages, will not easily 
accommodate itself to the sounds of our ver- 
nacular tongue, though conveyed in the same 
time and measure. In a word, Latin and Greek 
have annexed to them the ideas of the ancient 
measure, from which they are not easily dis- 
joined. But we will venture to say, this diffi- 
culty might be surmounted by an effort of atten- 
tion and a little practice; and in that case, we 
should in time be as well pleased with English as 
with Latin hexameters. 

Sir Philip Sidney is said to have miscarried in 
nis essays ; but his miscarriage was no more than 
that of failing in an attempt to introduce a new 
fashion. The failure was not owing to any defect 
or imperfection in the scheme, but to the want of 
taste, to the irresolution and ignorance of the 
public. Without all doubt, the ancient measure, 
so different from that of modern poetry, must 
have appeared remarkably uncouth to people in 
general, who were ignorant of the classics; and 
nothing but the countenance and perseverance of 
the learned could reconcile them to the alteration. 
We have seen several late specimens of English 
hexameters and sapphics, so happily composed, 
that by attaching them to the idea of ancient 
measure, we found them in all respects as me- 
lodious and agreeable to the ear, as the works of 
Virgil and Anacreon, or Horace. 

Though the number of syllables distinguishes 
the nature of the English verse from that of the 
Greek and Latin, it constitutes neither harmony, 
grace, nor expression. These must depend upon 



287 



the choice of words, the seat of the accent, the 
pause, and the cadence. The accent or tone, is 
understood to be an elevation or sinking of the 
voice in reciting : the pause is a rest, that divides 
the verse into two parts, each of them called an 
hemistich The pause and accent in English 
poetry vary occasionally, according to the meaning 
of the words; so that the hemistich does not 
always consist of an equal number of syllables; 
and this variety is agreeable, as it prevents a dull 
repetition of regular stops, like those in the 
French versification, every line of which is divided 
by a pause exactly in the middle. The cadence 
comprehends that poetical style which animates 
every line, that propriety which gives strength 
and expression, that numerosity which renders 
the verse smooth, flowing, and harmonious, that 
significancy which marks the passions, and in 
many cases makes the sound an echo of the 
sense. The Greek and Latin languages, in being 
copious and ductile, are susceptible of a vast 
variety of cadences, which the living languages 
will not admit ; and of these a reader of any ear 
will judge for himself. 



ESSAY XX. 

A school, in the polite arts, properly signifies 
that succession of artists, which has learned the 
principles of the art from some eminent master, 
either by hearing his lessons, or studying his 
works, and consequently who imitate his manner 
either through design or from habit. Musicians 
seem agreed in making only three principal schools 
in music; namely, the school of Pergolese in 
Italy, of Lully in France, and of Handel in 
England; though some are for making Rameau 
the founder of a new school, different from those 
of the former, as he is the inventor of beauties 
peculiarly his own. 

Without all doubt, Pergolese's music deserves 
the first rank ; though excelling neither in variety 
of movements, number of parts, nor unexpected 
flights, yet he is universally allowed to be the 
musical Raphael of Italy. This great master's 
principal art consisted in knowing how to excite 
our passions by sounds, which seem frequently 
opposite to the passion they would express : by 
slow solemn sounds he is sometimes known to 
throw us into all the rage of battle ; and even by 
faster movements, he excites melancholy in every 
heart that sounds are capable- of affecting. This 
is a talent which seems born with the artist. We 
are unable to tell why such sounds affect us : they 
seem no way imitative of the passion they would 
express, but operate upon us by an inexpressible 
sympathy ; the original of which is as inscrutable 
as the secret springs of life itself. To this excel- 
lence he adds another, in which he is superior to 
every other artist of the profession — the happy 
transition from one passion to another. No dra- 
matic poet better knows to prepare his incidents 
than he: the audience are pleased in those in- 
tervals of passion with the delicate, the simple 
harmony, if I may so express it, in which the 
parts are all thrown into fugues, or often are 
barely unison. His melodies also, where no pas- 
sion is expressed, give equal pleasure from this 
delicate simplicity: and I need only instance that 



288 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



song in the Serva Padrona, which begins, ' Lo 
conosco a quegl* occelli,' as one of the finest in- 
stances of excellence in the duo. 

.The Italian artists in general have followed 
his manner, yet seem fond of embellishing the 
delicate simplicity of the original. Their style 
Mi music seems somewhat to resemble that of 
Seneca in writing, where there are some beauti- 
ful starts of thought ; but the whole is filled with 
studied elegance and unafFecting affectation. 

Lully in France first attempted the improve- 
ment of their music, which in general resembled 
that of our old solemn chants in churches. It is 
worthy of remark, in general, that the music in 
every country is solemn in proportion as the 
inhabitants are merry ; or, in other words, the 
merriest, sprightliest nations are remarked for 
having the slowest music ; and those whose cha- 
racter it is to be melancholy, are pleased with the 
most brisk and airy movements. Thus, in 
France, Poland, Ireland, and Switzerland, the 
national music is slow, melancholy, and solemn ; 
in Italy, England, Spain, and Germany, it is 
faster, proportionably as the people are grave. 
Lully only changed a bad manner, which he found, 
for a bad one of his own. His drowsy pieces are 
played still to the most sprightly audience that can 
be conceived ; and even though Rameau, who is 
at once a musician and a philosopher, has shewn, 
both by precept and example, what improvements 
French music may still admit of, yet his countrymen 
seem little convinced by his reasonings ; and the 
Pont-neuf taste, as it is called, still prevails in 
their best performances. 

The English school was at first planted by 
Purcel : he attempted to unite the Italian manner 
that prevailed in his time, with the ancient Celtic 
carol and the Scottish ballad, which probably had 
also its origin in Italy; for some of the best 
Scottish ballads, — ' The Broom of Cowdenknows,' 
for instance, — are still ascribed to David Rizzio. 
But be that as it will, his manner was something 
peculiar to the English ; and he might have con- 
tinued as head of the English school, had not his 
merits been entirely eclipsed by Handel. Handel, 
though originally a German, yet adopted the 
English manner : he had iong laboured to please 
by Italian composition, but without success; and 
though his English oratorios are accounted inimi- 
table, yet his Italian operas are fallen into obli- 
vion. Pergolese excelled in passionate simplicity : 
Lully was remarkable for creating a new species 
of music, where all is elegant, but nothing pas- 
sionate or sublime. Handel's true characteristic 
is sublimity; he has employed all the variety of 
sounds and parts in all his pieces : the perform- 
ances of the rest may be pleasing, though executed 
by few performers; his require the full band. 
The attention is awakened, the soul is roused up 
at his pieces ; but distinct passion is seldom ex- 
pressed. In this particular he has seldom found 
success ; he has been obliged, in order to express 
passion, to imitate words by sounds, which, though 
it gives the pleasure which imitation always pro- 
duces, yet it fails of exciting those lasting affec- 
tions which it is in the power of sounds to pro- 
duce. In a word, no man ever understood har- 
mony so well as he ; but in melody he has been 
exceeded by several. 



The following Objections were addressed to the Editor of 
the British Magazine, in which the preceding Essay 
appeared. Dr Smollett, before printing it, sent the 
communication to Goldsmith, who answered the Objec- 
tor in the notes annexed. 

Permit me to object against some things ad- 
vanced in the paper on the subject of ' The Dif- 
ferent Schools of Music' The author of this- 
article seems too hasty in degrading the harmo- 
nious* Purcel, from the head of the English 
school, to erect in his room a foreigner, (Handel,) 
who has not yet formed any school. t The gen- 
tleman, when he comes to communicate his 
thoughts upon the different schools of painting, 
may as well place Rubens at the head of the 
English painters, because he left some monuments 
of his art in England.* He says, that Handel, 
though originally a German, (as most certainly 
he was, and continued so to his last breath,) yet 
adopted the English manner.f Yes, to be sure, 

* Had the Objector said melodious Purcel, it had testified 
at least a greater acquaintance with music, and Purcel's 
peculiar excellence. Purcel in melody is frequently greaU 
his song made in his last sickness, called Posy Bowers, is a 
fine instance of this; but in harmony he is far short of the 
meanest of our modern composers, his fullest harmonies 
being exceedingly simple. His opera of Prince Arthur T 
the words of which were Dryden's, is reckoned his finest 
piece. But what is that in point of harmony, to what we 
every day hear from modern masters? In short, with 
respect to genius, Purcel had a fine one: he greatly im- 
proved an art but little known in England before his time; 
for this he deserves our applause; but the present prevail- 
ing taste in music is very different from what he left it, 
and who was the improver since his time, we shall see by 
and by. 

t Handel may be said as justly as any man, not Pergo- 
lese excepted, to have founded a new school of music. 
When he first came into England his music was entirely 
Italian: he composed for the opera; and though even then 
his pieces were liked, yet did they not meet with universal 
approbation. In those he has too servilely imitated the 
modern vitiated Italian taste, by placing what foreigners 
call the point d'orgue too closely and injudiciously. But 
in his oratorios, he is perfectly an original genius. In these, 
by steering between the manners of Italy and England, he 
has struck out new harmonies, and formed a species of 
music different from all others. He has left some excellent 
and eminent scholars, particularly Worgan and Smith, who 
compose nearly in his manner, — a manner as different from 
Purcel's as from that of modern Italy. Consequently 
Handel may be placed at the head of the English school. 

* The Objector will not have Handel's school to be 
called an English school, because he was a German. 
Handel, in a great measure, found in England those essen- 
tial differences which characterize his music; we have 
already shewn that he had them not upon his arrival. Had 
Rubens come over to England but moderately skilled in his 
art; had he learned here all his excellency in colouring and 
correctness of designing; had he left several scholars excel- 
lent in his manner behind him; I should not scruple to call 
the school erected by him the English school of painting. 
Not the country in which a man is born, but his peculiar 
style either in painting or in music, constitutes him of this 
or that school. Thus Champagne, who painted in the 
manner of the French school, is always placed among the 
painters of that school, though he was born in Flanders, 
and should, consequently, by the Objector's rule, be placed 
among the Flemish painters. Kneller is placed in the 
German school, and Ostade in the Dutch, though born in 
the same city. Primatice, who may be truly said to have 
founded the Roman school, was born in Bologna; though, 
if his country was to determine his school, he should have 
been placed in the Lombard. There might several other 
instances be produced; but these, it is hoped, will be suf- 
ficient to prove, that Handel, though a German, may be- 
placed at the head of the English school. 

+ Handel was originally a German; but by a long con- 
tinuance in England, he might have been looked upon as 



289 



ESSAYS. 



Just as much as Rubens the painter did. Your 
correspondent, in the course of his discoveries, 
tells us, besides, that some of the best Scottish 
ballads, — « The Broom of Cowdenknows,' for in- 
stance, — are still ascribed to David Rizzio.* This 
Rizzio must have been a most original genius, or 
have possessed extraordinary imitative powers, 
to have come, so advanced in life as he did, from 
Italy, and strike so far out of the common road of 
his own country's music. 

A mere fiddler,* a shallow coxcomb, a giddy, 
insolent, worthless fellow, to compose such pieces 
as nothing but genuine sensibility of mind, and 
an exquisite feeling of those passions which ani- 
mate only the finest souls could dictate; and in a 
manner, too, so extravagantly distant from that 
to which he had all his life been accustomed ! It 
is impossible. He might indeed have had pre- 
sumption enough to add some flourishes to a few 
favourite airs, like a cobbler of old plays when he 
takes it upon him to mend Shakspeare. So far 
he might go ; but farther it is impossible for any 
one to believe, that has but just ear enough to 
distinguish between the Italian and Scottish 
music, and is disposed to consider the subject with 
the least degree of attention. 

March 18, 1760. S. R. 



naturalized to the country. I do not pretend to be a fine 
writer: however, if the gentleman dislikes the expression, 
(although he must be convinced it is a common one,) I 
wish it were mended. 

* I said that they were ascribed to David Rizzio. That 
they are, the Objector need only look into Mr. Oswald's 
Collection of Scottish Tunes, and he will there find not only 
* The Broom of Cowdenknows,' but also ' The Black 
Eagle,* and several other of the best Scottish tunes, ascribed 
to him. Though this might be a sufficient answer, yet I 
must be permitted to go farther, to tell the Objector the 
opinion of our best modern musicians in this particular. 
It is the opinion of the melodious Geminiani that we have 
in the dominions of Great Britain no original music except 
the Irish; the Scotch and English being originally borrowed 
from the Italians. And that his opinion in this respect is 
just, (for I would not be swayed merely by authorities.) it 
is very reasonable to suppose, first, from the conformity 
between the Scottish and ancient Italian music. They 
who compare the old French vaudevilles, brought from 
Italy by Rinuccini, with those pieces ascribed to David 
Rizzio, who was pretty nearly contemporary with him, will 
find a strong resemblance, notwithstanding the opposite 
characters of the two nations which have preserved those 
pieces. When I would have them compared, I mean I 
would have their basses compared, by which the similitude 
may be most exactly seen. Secondly, it is reasonable from 
the ancient music of the Scottish, which is still preserved 
in the Highlands, and which bears no resemblance at all 
to the music of the Low-country. The Highland tunes 
are sung to Irish words, and flow entirely in the Irish 
manner. On the other hand, the Lowland music is a.ways 
sung to English words. 

t David Rizzio was neither a mere fiddler, nor a shallow 
coxcomb, nor a worthless fellow, nor a stranger in Scot- 
land. He had indeed been brought over from Piedmont, 
to be put at the head of a band of music, by King James 
V., one of the most elegant princes of his time, an exqui. 
site judge of music, as well as of poetry, architecture, and 
all the fine arts. Rizzio, at the time of his death, had been 
above twenty years in Scotland: he was secretary to the 
Queen, and, at the same time, an agent from the Pope; so 
that he could not be so obscure as he has been represented. 



ESSAY XXI. 

There can be perhaps no greater entertainment 
than to compare the rude Celtic simplicity with 
modern refinement. Books, however, seem inca- 
pable of furnishing the parallel; and to be ac- 
quainted with the ancient manners of our own 
ancestors, we should endeavour to look for their 
remains in those countries which, being in some 
measure retired from an intercourse with other 
nations, are still untinctured with foreign refine- 
ment, language, or breeding. 

The Irish will satisfy curiosity in this respect 
preferably to all other nations I have seen. They, 
in several parts of that country, still adhere to 
their ancient language, dress, furniture, and 
superstitions ; several customs exist among them, 
that still speak their original; and, in some res- 
pects, Caesar's description of the ancient Britons 
is applicable to them. 

Their bards, in particular, are still held in great 
veneration among them; those traditional heralds 
are invited to every funeral, in order to fill up 
the intervals of the howl with their songs and 
harps. In these they rehearse the actions of the 
ancestors of the deceased, bewail the bondage of 
their country under the English government, and 
generally conclude with advising the young men 
and maidens to make the best use of their time, 
for they will soon, for all their present bloom, be 
stretched under the table, like the dead body 
before them. 

Of all the bards this country ever produced, the 
last and the greatest was Carolan the Blind. 
He was at once a poet, a musician, a composer, 
and sung his own verses to his harp. The ori- 
ginal natives never mention his name without 
rapture ; both his poetry and music they have by 
heart ; and even some of the English themselves, 
who have been transplanted there, find his music 
extremely pleasing. A song beginning, 

O'Rourke's noble fare will ne'er be forgot, 

translated by Dean Swift, is of his composition ; 
which, though perhaps by this means the best 
known of his pieces, is yet by no means the most 
deserving. His songs in general may be com- 
pared to those of Pindar, as they have frequently 
the same flights of imagination ; and are com- 
posed (I do not say written, for he could not 
write) merely to flatter some man of fortune upon 
some excellence of the same kind. In these one 
man is praised for the excellence of his stable, as 
in Pindar, another for his hospitality, a third for 
the beauty of his wife and children, and a fourth 
for the antiquity of his family. Whenever any of 
the original natives of distinction were assembled 
at feasting or revelling, Carolan was generally 
there, where he was always ready with his harp 
to celebrate their praises. He seemed by nature 
formed for his profession; for as he was born 
blind, so also he was possessed of a most astonish- 
ing memory, and a facetious turn of thinking, 
which gave his entertainers infinite satisfaction. 
Being once at the house of an Irish nobleman, 
where there was a musician present, who was 
eminent in the profession, Carolan immediately 
challenged him to a trial of skill To carry the 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



290 



jest forward, his lordship persuaded the musician 
to accept the challenge, and he accordingly played 
over on his riddle the fifth concerto of Vivaldi. 
Carolan, immediately taking his harp, played over 
the whole piece after him, without missing a 
note, though he had never heard it before, which 
produced some surprise; but their astonishment 
increased, when he assured them he could make 
a concerto in the same taste himself, which he 
instantly composed; and that with such spirit and 
elegance, that it may compare (for we have it 
still) with the finest compositions of Italy. 

His death was not less remarkable than his life. 
Homer was never more fond of a glass than he ; 
he would drink whole pints of usquebaugh, and, 
as he used to think, without any ill consequence. 
His intemperance, however, in this respect, at 
length brought on an incurable disorder; and, 
when just at the point of death, he called for a cup 
of his beloved liquor. Those who were standing 
round him, surprised at the demand, endeavoured 
to persuade him to the contrary; but he persisted, 
and, when the bowl was brought to him, attempt- 
ed to drink, but could not; wherefore, giving 
away the bowl, he observed, with a smile, that it 
would be hard if two such friends as he and the 
cup should part at least without kissing, and then 
expired. 




ESSAY XXII. 



Of all men who form gay allusions of distant hap- 
piness, perhaps a poet is the most sanguine. Such 
is the ardour of his hopes, that they often are 
equal to actual enjoyment; and he feels more in 
expectance than actual fruition. I have often 
regarded a character of this kind with some 
degree of envy. A man possessed of such warm 
imagination commands all nature, and arrogates 
possessions of which the owner has a blunter 
relish. While life continues, the alluring prospect 
lies before him ; he travels in the pursuit with 
confidence, and resigns it only with his last breath. 
• It is this happy confidence which gives life its 
true relish, and keeps up our spirits amidst every 
distress and disappointment. How much less 
v/ould be done, if a man knew how little he can 



do ! How wretched a creature would he be, if ho 
saw the end as well as the beginning of his pro- 
jects! He would have nothing left but to sit 
down in torpid despair, and exchange employ- 
ment for actual calamity. 

I was led into this train of thinking upon 
lately visiting * the beautiful gardens of the late 
Mr. Shenstone, who was himself a poet, and pos- 
sessed of that warm imagination, which made 
him ever foremost in the pursuit of flying hap- 
piness. Could he but have foreseen the end of 
all his schemes, for whom he was improving, and 
what changes his designs were to undergo, he 
would have scarcely amused his innocent life 
with what, for several years, employed him in a 
most harmless manner, and abridged his scanty 
fortune. As the progress of this improvement is 
a true picture of sublunary vicissitude, I could 
not help calling up my imagination, which, while 
I walked pensively along, suggested the following 
reverie. 

As I was turning my back upon a beautiful 
piece of water, enlivened with cascades and rock- 
work, and entering a dark walk, by which ran a 
prattling brook, the genius of the place appeared 
before me, but more resembling the god of time, 
than him more peculiarly appointed to the care of 
gardens. Instead of shears he bore a scythe; 
and he appeared rather with the implements of 
husbandry, than those of a modern gardener. 
Having remembered this place in its pristine 
beauty, I could not help condoling with him on 
its present ruinous situation. I spoke to him of 
the many alterations which had been made, and 
all for the worse; of the many shades which had 
been taken away, of the bowers that were de- 
stroyed by neglect, and the hedge-rows that were 
spoiled by clipping. The genius, with a sigh, 
received my condolement, and assured me that he 
was equally a martyr to ignorance and taste, to 
refinement and rusticity. Seeing me desirous of 
knowing farther, he went on : 

' You see, in the place before you, the paternal 
inheritance of a poet ; and, to a man content with 
little, fully sufficient for his subsistence: but a 
strong imagination, and a long acquaintance with 
the rich, are dangerous foes to contentment. Our 
poet, instead of sitting down to enjoy life, resolved 
to prepare for its future enjoyment, and set about 
converting a place of profit into a scene of plea- 
sure. This he at first supposed could be accom- 
plished at a small expanse; and he was willing 
for a while to stint his income, to have an oppor- 
tunity of displaying his taste. The improvement 
in this manner went forward ; one beauty attained 
led him to wish for some other; but he still 
hoped that every emendation would be the last. 
It was now, therefore, found, that the improve- 
ment exceeded the subsidy— that the place was 
grown too large and too fine for the inhabitant. 
But that pride which was once exhibited could 
not retire; the garden was made for the owner, 
and though it was become unfit for him, he could 
not willingly resign it to another. Thus the first 
idea of its beauties contributing to the happiness 
of his life, was found unfaithful; so that, instead 
of looking within for satisfaction, he began to 
think of having recourse to the praises of thos? 
who came to visit his improvement. 
* 1773. 



ESSAYS. 



291 



' In consequence of this hope, which now took 
possession of his mind, the gardens were opened 
to the visits of evfry stranger; and the country 
ilocked round to walk, to criticize, to admire, and 
to do mischief. He soon found, that the admirers 
of his taste left by no means such strong marks of 
their applause, as the envious did of their malig- 
nity. All the windows of his temples, and the 
walls of his retreats, were impressed with the 
characters of profaneness, ignorance, and obsce- 
nity ; his hedges were broken, his statues and 
urns defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It was 
now, therefore, necessary to shut up the gardens 
once more, and to deprive the public of that 
happiness which had before ceased to be his own. 

' In this situation the poet continued for a time, 
in the character of a jealous lover, fond of the 
beauty he keeps, but unable to supply the extra- 
vagance of every demand. The garden by this 
time was completely grown and finished; the 
marks of every art were covered up by the luxu- 
riance of nature ; the winding walks were grown 
dark; the brook assumed a natural sylvage ; and 
the rocks were covered with moss. Nothing now 
remained but to enjoy the beauties of the place, 
when the poor poet died, and his garden was 
obliged to be sold for the benefit of those who had 
contributed to its embellishment. 

' The beauties of the place had now for some 
.time been celebrated as well in prose as in verse ; 
and all men of taste wished for so envied a spot, 
where every turn was marked with a poet's pen- 
cil, and every walk awakened genius and medita- 
tion. The first purchaser was one Mr. Truepenny, 
a button-maker, who was possessed of three thou- 
sand pounds, and was willing also to be possessed 
-of taste and genius. 

' As the poet's ideas were for the natural wild- 
.ness of the landscape, the button-maker's were for 
the more regular productions of art. He con- 
ceived, perhaps, that as it is a beauty in a button 
to be of a regular pattern, so the same regularity 
ought to obtain in a landscape. Be that as it 
will, he employed the shears to some purpose; he 
-clipped up the hedges, cut down the gloomy 
walks, made vistas upon the stables and hog-sties, 
and shewed his friends that a man of taste should 
always be doing. 

' The next candidate for taste and genius was 
a captain of a ship, who bought the garden because 
the former possessor could find nothing more to 
mend : but unfortunately he had taste too. His 
.great passion lay in building, in making Chinese 
temples, and cage-work summer-houses. As the 
place before had an appearance of retirement, and 
inspired meditation, he gave it a more peopled 
.air; every turning presented a cottage, or ice- 
house, or a temple ; the improvement was con- 
verted into a little city, and it only wanted inha- 
bitants to give it the air of a village in the East 
Indies. 

' In this manner, in less than ten years, the 
improvement has gone through the hands of as 
many proprietors, who were all willing to have 
taste, and to shew their taste too. As the place 
had received its best finishing from the hand of 
the first possessor, so every innovator only lent a 
hand to do mischief. Those parts which were 
obscure, have been enlightened; those walks which 
]ed naturally, have been twisted into serpentine 



windings. The colour of the flowers of the field 
is not more various than the variety of tastes that 
have been employed here, and all in direct con- 
tradiction to the original aim of its first improver. 
Could the original possessor but revive, with what 
a sorrowful heart would he look upon his fa- 
vourite spot again ! He would scarcely recollect a 
Driad or a Wood-nymph of his former acquaint- 
ance, and might perhaps find himself as much a 
stranger in his own plantation as in the deserts of 
Siberia." 



ESSAY XXIII. 

The theatre, like all other amusements, has its 
fashions and its prejudices ; and when satiated 
with its excellence, mankind begin to mistake 
change for improvement. For some years tragedy 
was the reigning entertainment ; but of late it has 
entirely given way to comedy, and our best efforts 
are now exerted in these lighter kinds of compo- 
sition. The pompous train, the swelling phrase, 
and the unnatural rant, are displaced for that 
natural portrait of human folly and frailty, of 
which all are judges, because all have sat for the 
picture. 

But as in describing nature, it is presented with 
a double face, either of mirth or sadness, our 
modern writers find themselves at a loss which 
chiefly to copy from; and it is now debated, 
whether the exhibition of human distress is likely 
to afford the mind more entertainment than that 
of human absurdity? 

Comedy is defined by Aristotle to be a picture 
of the frailties of the lower part of mankind, to 
distinguish it from tragedy, which is an exhibition 
of the misfortunes of the great. "When comedy, 
therefore, ascends to produce the characters of 
princes or generals upon the stage, it is out of its 
walk, since low life and middle life are entirely its 
object. The principal question, therefore, is, 
whether, in describing low or middle life, an 
exhibition of its follies be not preferable to a de- 
tail of its calamities? Or, in other words, which 
deserves the preference, — the weeping sentimen- 
tal comedy so much in fashion at present,* or 
the laughing and even low comedy, which seems 
to have been last exhibited by Vanbrugh and 
Qibber ? 

If we apply to authorities, all the great masters 
in the dramatic art have but one opinion. Their 
rule is, that as tragedy displays the calamities of 
the great, so comedy should excite our laughter 
ly ridiculously exhibiting the follies of the lower 
part of mankind. Boileau, one of the best modern 
critics, asserts, that comedy will not admit of 
tragic distress : 

Le comique, ennemi des soupirs et des pleurs, 
N'admet point dans ses vers de tragiques douleurs. 1 

Nor is this rule without the strongest foundation 
in nature, as the distresses of the mean by no 
means affect us so strongly as the calamities of 
the great. When tragedy exhibits to us some 
great man fallen from his height, and struggling 
with want and adversity, we feel his situation in 
the same manner, as we suppose he himself must 

* 1773. 



292 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



feel, and our pity is increased in proportion to the 
height from which he fell. On the contrary, we 
do not so strongly sympathize with one born in 
humbler circumstances, and encountering acci- 
dental distress : so that while we melt for Belisa- 
rius, we scarcely give halfpence to the beggar 
who accosts us in the street. The one has our 
pity; the other our contempt. Distress, there- 
fore, is the proper object of tragedy, since the 
great excite our pity by their fall j but not equally 
so of comedy, since the actors employed in it are 
originally so mean, that they sink but little by 
their faU. 

Since the first origin of the stage, tragedy and 
comedy have run distinct channels, and never till 
of late encroached upon the provinces of each 
other. Terence, who seems to have made the 
nearest approaches, always judiciously stops short 
before he comes to the downright pathetic ; and 
yet he is even reproached by Caesar for wanting 
the vis comica. All the other comic writers of 
antiquity aim only at rendering folly or vice ridi- 
culous, but never exalt their characters into 
buskined pomp, or make what Voltaire humo- 
rously calls a tradesman's tragedy. 

Yet notwithstanding this weight of authority, 
and the universal practice of former ages, a new 
species of dramatic composition has been intro- 
duced, under the name of sentimental comedy, in 
which the virtues of private life are exhibited, 
rather than the vices exposed; and the distresses 
rather than the faults of mankind make our 
interest in the piece. These comedies have had 
of late great success, perhaps from their novelty, 
and also from their flattering every man in his 
favourite foible. In these plays almost all the 
characters are good, and exceedingly generous; 
they are lavish enough of their tin money on the 
stage ; and though they want humour, have abund- 
ance of sentiment and feeling. If they happen 
to have faults or foibles, the spectator is taught, 
not only to pardon, but to applaud them, in con- 
sideration of the goodness of their hearts ; so that 
folly, instead of being ridiculed, is commended, 
and the comedy aims at touching our passions 
without the power of being truly pathetic. In 
this manner we are likely to lose one great source 
of entertainment on the stage ; for while the comic 
poet is invading the province of the tragic muse, 
he leaves her lovely sister quite neglected. Of 
this, however, he is no way solicitous, as Re 
measures his fame by his profits. 

But it will be said, that the theatre is formed to 
amuse mankind, and that it matters little, if this 
end be answered, by what means it is obtained. 
If mankind find delight in weeping at comedy, it 
would be cruel to abridge them in that or any 
other innocent pleasure. If those pieces are de- 
nied the name of comedies, yet call them by any 
other name, and if they are delightful, they are 
good. Their success, it will be said, is a mark of 
their merit, and it is only abridging our happiness 
to deny us an inlet to amusement. 

These objections, however, are rather specious 
than solid. It is true, that amusement is a great 
object of the theatre, and it will be allowed that 
these sentimental pieces do often amuse us ; but 
the question is, whether the true comedy would 
not amuse us more ? The question is, whether a 
character supported throughout a piece with its 



ridicule still attending, would not give us more 
delight than this species of bastard tragedy, which 
only is applauded because it is new? 

A friend of mine, who was sitting unmoved at 
one of these sentimental pieces, was asked how 
he could be so indifferent? 'Why, truly,' says 
he, * as the hero is but a tradesman, it is indiffer- 
ent to me whether he be turned out of his count- 
ing-house on Fish-street Hill, since he will still 
have enough left to open shop in St. Giles's.' 

The other objection is as ill-grounded ; for 
though we should give these pieces another name, 
it will not mend their efficacy. It will continue 
a kind of mulish production, with all the defects 
of its opposite parents, and marked with sterility. 
If we are permitted to make comedy weep, we 
have an equal right to make tragedy laugh, and 
to set down in blank verse the jests and repartees 
of all the attendants in a funeral procession. 

But there is one argument in favour of senti- 
mental comedy, which will keep it on the stage, 
in spite of all that can be said against it. It is, 
of all others, the most easily written. Those 
abilities that can hammer out a novel, are fully 
sufficient for the production of a sentimental co- 
medy. It is only sufficient to raise the characters 
a little ; to deck out the hero with a ribbon, or 
give the heroine a title ; then to put an insipid 
dialogue, without character or humour, into their 
mouths, give them mighty good hearts, very fine 
clothes, furnish a new set of scenes, make a pa- 
thetic scene or two, with a sprinkling of tender 
melancholy conversation through the whole, and 
there is no doubt but all the ladies will cry, and 
all the gentlemen applaud. 

Humour at present seems to be departing from 
the stage, and it will soon happen that our comic 
players will have nothing left for it but a fine coat 
and a song. It depends upon the audience whe- 
ther they will actually drive those poor merry 
creatures from the stage, or sit at a play as gloomy 
as at the tabernacle. It is not easy to recover an 
art when once lost ; and it will be but a just pu- 
nishment, that when, by our being too fastidious, 
we have banished humour from the stage, we 
should ourselves be deprived of the art of 
laughing. 



ESSAY XXIV. 

As I see you are fond of gallantry, and seem will- 
ing to set young people together as soon as you 
can, I cannot help lending my assistance to your 
endeavours, as I am greatly concerned in the at- 
tempt. You must know, sir, that I am landlady 
of one of the most noted inns on the road to Scot- 
land, and have seldom less than eight or ten cou- 
ples a-week, who go down rapturous lovers, and 
return man and wife, 

If there be in this world an agreeable situation, 
it must be that in which a young couple find 
themselves, when just let loose from confinement 
and whirling off to the land of promise. When 
the post-chaise is driving off, and the blinds are 
drawn up, sure nothing can equal it. And yet, I 
do not know how, what with the fears of being 
pursued, or the wishes for greater happiness, not 
one of my customers but seems gloomy and out 



ESSAYS. 



293 



of temper. The gentlemen are all sullen, and 
the ladies discontented. 

But if it be so going down, how is it with them 

coming back? Having been for a fortnight toge- 

j ther, they are then mighty good company to be 

I sure. It is then the young lady's indiscretion 

j stares her in the face, and the gentleman himself 

finds that much is to be done before the money 

comes in. 

For my own part, sir, I was married in the 
usual way ; all my friends were at the wedding ; 
I was conducted with great ceremony from the 
table to the bed; and I do not find that it any 
ways diminished my happiness with my husband, 
while, poor man! he continued with me. For 
my part, I am entirely for doing things in the old 
family way ; I hate your new-fashioned manners, 
and never loved an outlandish marriage in my 
life. 

As I have had numbers call at my house, you 
may be sure I was not idle in inquiring who they 
were, and how they did in the world after they 
left me. I cannot say that I ever heard much 
good come of them : and of a history of twenty- 
five that I noted down in my ledger, I do not 
, know a single couple that would not have been 
full as happy if they had gone the plain way to 
j work, and asked the consent of their parents. To 
convince you of it, I will mention the names of a 
, few, and refer the rest to some fitter opportunity. 
Imprimis, Miss Jenny Hastings went down to 
, Scotland with a tailor, who, to be sure, for a tailor, 
was a very agreeable sort of a man. But I do not 
know how, he did not take proper measure of the 
young lady's disposition-, they quarrelled at my 
house on their return ; so she left him for a cornet 
of dragoons, and he went back to his shop-board. 
Miss Rachel Runfort went off with a grenadier. 
They spent all their money going down; so that 
he carried her down in a post-chaise, and coming 
back, she helped to carry his knapsack. 

Miss Racket went down with her lover in their 
own phaeton ; but upon their return, being very 
fond of driving, she would be every new and then 
for holding the whip. This bred a dispute ; and 
before they were a fortnight together, she felt that 
he could exercise the whip on somebody else be- 
sides the horses. 

Miss Meekly, though all compliance to the will 
of her lover, could never reconcile him to the 
change of his situation. It seems he married her 
supposing she had a large fortune ; but being de- 
ceived in their expectations, they parted ; and 
they now keep separate garrets in Rosemary 
Lane. 

The next couple of whom I have any account, 
actually lived together in great harmony and un- 
cloying kindness for no less than a month ; but 
the lady, who was a little in years, having parted 
with her fortune to her dearest life, he left her to 
make love to that better part of her which he 
valued more. 

The next pair consisted of an Irish fortune- 
hunter, and one of the prettiest, modestest ladies 
that ever my eyes beheld. As he was a wejl- 
looking gentleman, all dressed in lace, and as she 
seemed very fond of him, I thought they were 
blest for life. Yet I was quickly mistaken. The 
lady was no better than a common woman of the 
town, and he was no better than a sharper ; so 



they agreed upon a mutual divorce; ne now 
dresses at the York Ball, and she is in keeping by 
the member of our borough in Parliament. 

In this manner we see that all those marriages, 
in which tnere is interest on one side, and dis- 
obedience on the other, are not likely to promise 
a long harvest of delights. If our fortune-hunt- 
ing gentlemen would but speak out, the young 
lady, instead of a lover, would often find a sneak- 
ing rogue, that only wanted the lady's purse, and 
not her heart. For my own part, I never saw 
any thing but design and falsehood in every one 
of them ; and my blood has boiled in my veins, 
when I saw a young fellow of twenty kneeling at 
the feet of a twenty thousand pounder, profess- 
ing his passion, while he was taking aim at her 
money. I do not deny but there may be love in 
a Scottish marriage, but it is generally all on one 
side. 

Of all the sincere admirers I ever knew, a man 
of my acquaintance, who, however, did not run 
away with his mistress to Scotland, was the most 
so. An old exciseman of our town, who, as you 
may guess, was not very rich, had a daughter, 
who, as you shall see, was not very handsome. 
It was the opinion of every body that this young 
woman would not soon be married, as she wanted 
two main articles, beauty and fortune. But for all 
this, a very well-looking man, that happened to be 
travelling those parts, came and asked the excise- 
man for his daughter in marriage. The excise- 
man, willing to deal openly by him, asked if he 
had seen the girl ; ' for,' says he, ' she is hump- 
backed.' — ' Very well,' cried the stranger, ' that 
will do for me.' — 'Ay,' says the exciseman *but 
my daughter is as brown as a berry.' — ' So much 
the better,' cried the stranger ; ' such skins wear 
well.' — ' But she is bandy-legged,' says the ex- 
ciseman. — ' No matter,' cries the other ; ' her 
petticoats will hide that defect.' — ' But then she 
is very poor, and wants an eye.' — ' Your descrip- 
tion delights me,' cries the- stranger ; 'I have 
been looking out for one of her make ; for I keep 
an exhibition of wild beasts, and intend to shew 
her off for a Chimpanzee.' 



294 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



J^ltsceUaneous pieces. 



SELECTED FliOM THE ' BEE,' SCO 



THE STORY OE 

ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 

Translated from a Byzantine Historian." 

Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman 
empire, still continued the seat of learning, polite- 
ness, and wisdom. The emperors and generals, 
who in these periods of approaching ignorance, 
j still felt a passion for science, from time to time 
added to its buildings, or increased its professor- 
: ships. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, was of the num- 
| ber: he repaired those schools which barbarity 
i was suffering to fall into decay, and continued 
j those pensions to men of learning, which avari- 
cious governors had monopolized to themselves. 
In this city, and about this period, Alcander 
i and Septimius were fellow students together. 
I The one the most subtile reasoner of all the Ly- 
I ceum ; the other the most eloquent speaker in the 
Academic grove. Mutual admiration soon begot 
an acquaintance, and a similitude of disposition 
made them perfect friends. Their fortunes were 
nearly equal, their studies the same, and they 
were natives of the two most celebrated cities in 
the world ; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius 
came from Rome. 

In this mutual harmony they lived for some 
time together, when Alcander, after passing the 
first part of his youth in the indolence of philoso- 
phy, thought at length of entering into the busy 
world, and as a step previous to this, placed his 
affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. 
Hypatia shewed no dislike to his addresses. The 
day of their intended nuptials was fixed, the 
previous ceremonies were performed, and nothing 
now remained but her being conducted in triumph 
to the apartment of the intended bridegroom. 

An exultation in his own happiness, or his be- 
ing unable to enjoy any satisfaction without mak- 
ing his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon 
him to introduce his mistress to his fellow stu- 
dent, which he did with all the gaiety of a man 
who found himself equally happy in friendship 
and love. But this was an interview fatal to the 
peace of both ; for Septimius no sooner saw her, 
but he was smit with an involuntary passion. 
He used every effort, but in vain, to suppress de- 
sires at once so imprudent and unjust. He retired 
to his apartment in inexpressible agony ; and the 
emotions of his mind in a short time became so 
strong, that they brought on a fever which the 
physicians judged incurable. 

During this illness, Alcander watched him with 
all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mis- 
tress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. 
The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, 
soon discovered the cause of their patient's dis- 



order; and Alcander, being apprised of their dis- 
covery, at length extorted a confession from the 
reluctant dying lover. 

It would but delay the narrative to describe the 
conflict between love and friendship in the breast 
of Alcander on this occasion ; it is enough to say, 
that the Athenians were at this time arrived at 
such refinement in morals, that every virtue was 
carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own 
felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her 
charms, to the young Roman. They were mar- 
ried privately by his connivance; and this un- 
looked-for change of fortune wrought as unex- 
pected a change in the constitution of the now 
happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly 
recovered, and set out with his fair partner for 
Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents of 
which he was so eminently possessed, he in a few 
years arrived at the highest dignities of the state, 
and was constituted the city judge or praetor. 

Meanwhile, Alcander not only felt the pain of 
being separated from his friend and mistress, but 
a prosecution was also commenced against him by 
the relations of Hypatia, for his having basely 
given her up, as was suggested, for money. Nei- 
ther his innocence of the crime laid to his charge, 
nor his eloquence in his own defence, was able to 
withstand the influence of a powerful party. He 
was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous 
fine. Unable to raise so large a sum at the time 
appointed, his possessions were confiscated, him- 
self stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed in 
the market-place, and sold as a slave to the high- 
est bidder. 

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, 
Alcander, with some other companions of distress, 
was carried into that region of desolation and 
sterility. His stated employment was to follow 
the herds of an imperious master ; and his skill 
in hunting was all that was allowed him to supply 
a precarious subsistence. Condemned to hopeless 
servitude, every morning waked him to a renewal 
of famine or toil, and every change of season 
served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. 
Nothing but death or flight was left him, and al- 
most certain death was the consequence of his 
attempting to fly. After some years of bondage, 
however, an opportunity of escaping offered ; he 
embraced it with ardour, and travelling by night, 
and lodging in caverns by day, tD shorten a long 
story, he at last arrived in Rome. The day of 
Alcander's arrival, Septimius sat in the forum 
administering justice; and hither our wanderer 
came, expecting to be instantly known, and pub- 
licly acknowledged. Here he stood the whole 
day among the crowd, watching the eyes of the 
judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but 
so much was he altered, by a long succession of 
hardships, that he passed entirely without notice ; 
and, in the evening, when he was going up to the 
praetor's chair, he was brutally repulsed by the 
attending lictors. The attention of the poor is 
generally driven from one ungrateful object to 
another : night coming on, he now found himself 
under a necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and 
yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and 
in rags as he was, none of the citizens would har- 
bour so much wretchedness, and sleeping in the 
streets might be attended with interruption or 
danger : in short, he was obliged to take up his 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



295 



lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the 
| usual retreat of guilt, poverty, or despair. 

In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon 
i an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while 
; in sleep ; and virtue found, on this flinty couch 
more ease than down can supply to the guilty. 

It was midnight when two robbers came to 
make this cave their retreat, but happening to 
disagree about the division of their plunder, one 
of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left 
him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these 
circumstances he was found next morning, and 
this naturally induced a farther inquiry. The 
i alarm was spread, the cave was examined, Alcan- 
| dor was found sleeping, and immediately appre- 
j hended and accused of robbery and murder. The 
circumstances against him were strong, and the 
j wretchedness of his appearance confirmed sus- 
picion. Misfortune and he were now so long ac- 
quainted, that he at last became regardless of life. 
He detested a world where he had found only 
ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty, and was de- 
termined to make no defence. Thus, lowering 
with resolution, he was dragged, bound with 
cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. The 
I proofs were positive against him, and he offered 
I nothing in his own vindication ; the judge, there- 
fore, was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel 
and ignominious death, when, as if illuminated 
by a ray from heaven, he discovered, through all 
his misery, the features, though dim with sorrow, 
of his long lost, loved Alcander. It is impossible 
to describe his joy and his pain on this strange 
occasion ; happy in once more seeing the person 
he most loved on earth, distressed at finding him 
in such circumstances. Thus agitated by con- 
tending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and, 
falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst 
into an agony of distress. The attention of the 
multitude was soon, however, divided by another 
object. The robber who had been really guilty, 
was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck 
with a panic, confessed his crime. He was 
brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted 
every other person of any partnership in his 
guilt. Need the sequel be related? Alcander 
was acquitted, shared the friendship and honours 
of his friend Septimius, lived afterwards in hap- 
piness and ease, and left it to be engraved oh his 
tomb, that 'no circumstances are so desperate 
which Providence may not relieve.' 



SOME PARTICULARS 

RELATIVE TO CHARLES^XII. 

NOT COMMONWi KNOWN,, 

Stockholm. 

Sir, — I cannot resist your solicitations, though it 
is possible I shall be unable to satisfy your cu- 
riosity. The polite of every country seem to 
have but one character. A gentleman of Sweden 
differs but little, except in trifles, from one of any 
other country. It is among the vulgar we are to 
find those distinctions which characterize a peo- 
ple, and from them it is that I take my picture of 
the Swedes. . 



Though the Swedes, in general, appear to lan- 
guish under oppression, which often renders 
others wicked, or of malignant dispositions, it 
has not, however, the same influence upon them, 
as they are faithful, civil, and incapable of atro- 
cious crimes. "Would you believe that, in Sweden, 
highway robberies are not so much as heard of? 
For my part, I have not in the whole country 
seen a gibbet or a gallows. They pay an infinite 
respect to their ecclesiastics, whom they suppose 
to be the privy-councillors of Providence, who, on 
their part, turn this credulity to their own advan- 
tage, and manage their parishioners as they 
please. In general, however, they seldom abuse 
their sovereign authority. Hearkened to as ora- 
cles, regarded as the dispensers of eternal re- 
wards and punishments, they readily influence 
their hearers into justice, and make them practi- 
cal philosophers without the pains of study. 

As to their persons, they are perfectly well- 
made, and the men particularly have a very en- 
gaging air. The greatest part of the boys which 
I saw in the country had very white hair. They 
were as beautiful as cupids, and there was some- 
thing open and entirely happy in their little 
chubby faces. The girls, on the contrary, have 
neither such fair nor such even complexions, and 
their features are much less delicate, which is a 
circumstance different from that of almost every 
other country. Besides this, it is observed, that 
the women are generally afflicted with the itch, 
for which Scania is particularly remarkable. I 
had an instance of this in one of the inns on the 
road. The hostess was one of the most beautiful 
women I have ever seen : she had so fine a com- 
plexion, that I could not avoid admiring it. But 
what was my surprise, when she opened her bo- 
som in order to suckle her child, to perceive that 
seat of delight all covered with this disagreeable 
distemper. The careless manner in which she 
exposed to our eyes so disgusting an object, suffi- 
ciently testifies that they regard it as no very 
extraordinary malady, and seem to take no pains 
to conceal it. Such are the remarks, which pro- 
bably you may think trifling enough, I have 
made in my journey to Stockholm, which, to take 
it altogether, is a large, beautiful, and even a 
populous city. 

The arsenal appears to me one of its greatest 
curiosities : it is a handsome, spacious building, 
but, however, scantily supplied with the imple- 
ments of war. To recompense this defect, they 
have almost filled it with trophies, and other 
marks of their former military glory. I saw there 
several chambers filled with Danish, Saxon, 
Polish, and Russian standards. There was at 
least enough to suffice half-a-dozen armies ; but 
new standards are more easily made than new 
armies can be enlisted. I saw, besides, some 
very rich furniture, and some of the crown jewels, 
of great value; but what principally engaged my 
attention, and touched me with passing melan- 
choly, were the bloody, yet precious, spoils of the 
two greatest heroes the north ever produced. 
What I mean are the clothes in which the great 
Gustavus Adolphus, and the intrepid Charles XII. 
died by a fate not unusual to kings. The first, if 
I remember, is a sort of a buff waistcoat, made 
antique fashion, very plain, and without the least 
ornaments ; the second which was even more 



!96 



GOLDSMITHS MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



remarkable, consisted only of a coarse blue cloth 
coat, a large hat of less value, a shirt of coarse 
linen, large boots, and buff gloves made to cover 
a great part of the arm. His saddle, his pistols, 
and his sword, have nothing in them remarkable : 
the meanest soldier was in this respect no way 
inferior to his gallant monarch. I shall use this 
opportunity to give you some particulars of the 
life of a man already so well known, which I had 
from persons who knew him when a child, and 
who now, by a fate not unusual to courtiers, spend 
a life of poverty and retirement, and talk over in 
raptures all the actions of their old victorious 
king, companion, and master. 

Courage and inflexible constancy formed the 
basis of this monarch's character. In his ten- 
derest years he gave instances of both. When he 
was yet scarcely seven years old, being at dinner 
with the queen his mother, intending to give a 
bit of bread to a great dog he was fond of, this 
hungry animal snapt too greedily at the morsel, 
and bit his hand in a terrible manner. The 
■wound bled copiously, but our young hero, with- 
out offering to cry, or taking the least notice of 
his misfortune, endeavoured to conceal what had 
happened, lest his dog should be brought into 
trouble, and wrapped his bloody hand in the nap- 
kin. The queen, perceiving that he did not eat, 
asked him the reason. He contented himself 
■with replying, that he thanked her, he was not 
hungry. They thought he was taken ill, and so 
repeated their solicitations : but all was in vain, 
though the poor child was already grown pale 
with the loss of blood. An officer who attended 
at table at last perceived it; for Charles would 
sooner have died than betrayed his dog, who, he 
knew, intended no injury. 

At another time, when in the small pox, and 
his case appeared dangerous, he grew one day 
very uneasy in his bed, and a gentleman who 
watched him, desirous of covering him up close, 
received from the patient a violent box on his 
ear. Some hours after, observing the prince more 
calm, he entreated to know how he had incurred 
his displeasure, or what he had done to have 
merited a blow. ' A blow V replied Charles, ' I 
don't remember any thing of it : I remember, in- 
deed, that I thought myself in the battle of Ar- 
bela, fighting for Darius, where I gave Alexander 
a blow which brought him to the ground.' 

What great effects might not these two quali- 
ties of courage and constancy have produced, had 
thoy at first received a just direction ? Charles, 
with proper instructions, thus naturally disposed, 
would have been the delight and the glory of his 
age. Happy those princes, who are educated by 
men who are at once virtuous and wise, and have 
been for some time in the school of affliction ; 
who weigh happiness against glory, and teach 
their royal pupils the real value of fame ; who 
are ever shewing the superior dignity of man to 
that of royalty— that a peasant who does his duty 
is a nobler character than a king of even mid- 
dling reputation ! Happy, I say, were princes, 
could such men be found to instruct them ; but 
those to whom such an education is generally in- 
trusted, are men who themselves have acted in a 
sphere too high to know mankind. Puffed up 
themselves with the ideas of false grandeur, and 
measuring merit by adventitious circumstances 



of greatness, they generally communicate those 
fatal prejudices to their pupils, confirm their 
pride by adulation, or increase their ignorance by 
teaching them to despise that wisdom which is 
found among the poor. 

But not to moralize when I only intend a story, 
— what is related of the journeys of this prince is 
no less astonishing. He has sometimes been on 
horseback for four-and-twenty hours successively, 
and thus traversed the greatest part of his king- 
dom. At last none of his officers were found ca- 
pable of following him; he thus consequently 
rode the greatest part of his journeys quite alone, 
without taking a moment's repose, and without 
any other subsistence but a bit of bread. In one 
of these rapid courses he underwent an adventure 
singular enough. Riding thus post one day, all 
alone, he had the misfortune to have his horse 
fall dead under him. This might have embar- 
rassed an ordinary man, but it gave Charles no 
sort of uneasiness. Sure of finding another horse, 
but not equally so of meeting with a good saddle 
and pistols, he ungirths his horse, claps the whole 
equipage on his own back, and, thus accoutred, 
marches on to the next inn, which by good for- 
tune was not far off. Entering the stable, he 
here found a horse entirely to his mind; so, 
without farther ceremony, he clapped on his sad - 
die and housing with great composure, and was 
just going to mount, when the gentleman who 
owned the horse was apprized of a stranger's 
going to steal his property out of the stable. Up- 
on asking the king, whom he had never seen, 
bluntly, how he presumed to meddle with his 
horse, Charles coolly replied, squeezing in his 
lips, which was his usual custom, that he took 
the horse because he wanted one; 'for you see, 
continued he, ' if I have none, I shall be obliged 
to carry the saddle myself.' This answer did not 
seem at all satisfactory to the gentleman, who 
instantly drew his sword.' In this the king was 
not much behind-hand with him, and to it they 
were going, when the guards by this time came 
up, and testified that surprise which was natural 
to see arms in the hand of a subject against his 
king. Imagine whether the gentleman was less 
surprised than they at his unpremeditated dis- 
obedience. His astonishment, however, was soon 
dissipated by the king, who, taking him by the 
hand, assured him he was a brave fellow, and 
himself would take care he should be provided 
for. This promise was afterwards fulfilled, and I 
have been assured the king made him a captain. 



HAPPINESS, 

IN A GREAT MEASURE DEPENDENT ON CONSTITUTION. 

When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in 
which I passed the earlier part of my life in the 
country, I cannot avoid feeling some pain in 
thinking that those happy days are never to re- 
turn. In that retreat all nature seemed capable 
of affording pleasure : I then made no refine- 
ments on happiness, but could be pleased with 
the most awkward efforts of rustic mirth ; thought 
cross purposes the highest stret ch of human wit, 
and questions and commands the most rational 
amusement for spending the evening. Happy 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



297 



could so charming an illusion still continue. I find 
age and knowledge only contribute to sour our 
dispositions. My present enjoyments may be 
more refined, but they are infinitely less pleasing. 
The pleasure Garrick gives can no way compare 
to that I have received from a country wag, who 
imitated a quaker's sermon. The music of Matei 
is dissonance to what I felt when our old dairy- 
maid sang me into tears with Johnny Armstrong's 
Last Good Night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allan. 

Writers of every age have endeavoured to shew 
that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects 
offered for our amusement. If the soul be hap- 
pily disposed, every tiling becomes a subject of 
entertainment, and distress will almost want a 
name. Every occurrence passes in review like 
the figures of a procession : some may be awk- 
ward, others ill dressed, but none but a fool is for 
this enraged with the master of the ceremonies. 

I remember to have once seen a slave in a for- 
tification in Flanders, who appeared no way 
touched with his situation. He was maimed, 
deformed, and chained ; obliged to toil from the 
appearance of day till nightfall, and condemned 
to this for life; yet with all these circumstances 
of apparent wretchedness, he sang, would have 
danced, hut that he wanted a leg, and appeared 
the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. 
"What a practical philosopher was here ! a happy 
constitution supplied philosophy, and though 
seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really 
wise. No reading or study had contributed to 
disenchant the fairy land around him. Every 
thing furnished him with an opportunity of mirth; 
and though some thought him, from his insen- 
sibility, a fool, he was such an idiot as philoso- 
phers might in vain wish to imitate. 

They who like him can place themselves on 
that side of the world, in which every thing ap- 
pears in a ridiculous or pleasing light, will find 
something in every occurrence to excite their 
good humour. The most calamitous events, 
either to themselves or others, can bring no new 
affliction : the whole world is to them a theatre, 
on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle 
of heroism, or the rants of ambition, serve only 
to heighten the absurdity of the scene, and make 
the humour more poignant. They feel, in short, 
as litlie anguish at their own distress, or the 
complaints of others, as the undertaker, though 
dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral. 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous car- 
dinal de Retz possessed this happiness of temper 
in the highest degree. As he was a man of gal- 
lantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic 
appearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was 
to be sold he was generally foremost to raise 
the auction. Being an universal admirer of the 
fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he gene- 
rally fell in love with another, from whom he ex- 
pected a more favourable reception; if she too 
rejected his addresses, he never thought of retir- 
ing into deserts, or pining in hopeless distress : 
he persuaded himself, that instead of loving the 
lady, he only fancied he had loved her, and so all 
was well again. When fortune wore her angriest 
look, when he at last fell into the power of his 
most deadly enemy, cardinal Mazarine, and was 
confined a close prisoner in the castle of Valen- 
ciennes, he never attempted to support his dis- 



tress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended 
to neither. He laughed at himself and his per- 
secutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his new 
situation. In this mansion of distress, though 
secluded from his friends, though denied all the 
amusements, and even the conveniencies of life, 
teased every hour by the impertinence of wretches 
who were employed to guard him, he still retained 
his good humour, laughed at all their little spite, 
and carried the jest so far as to be revenged, by 
writing the life of his jailer. 

All that philosophy can teach, is to be stubborn 
or sullen under misfortunes. The cardinal's ex- 
ample will instruct us to be merry in circum- 
stances of the highest affliction. It matters not 
whether our good humour be construed by others 
into insensibility, or even idiotism : it is happi- 
ness to ourselves, and none but a fool would mea- 
sure his satisfaction by what the world thinks 

of it. 

Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly 
fellows I ever knew. He was of the number of 
those good-natured creatures that are said to do 
no harm to any but themselves. Whenever Dick 
fell into any misery, he usually called it ' seeing 
life.' If his head was broke by a chairman, or his 
pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself 
by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or 
the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing 
came amiss to Dick. His inattention to money 
matters had incensed his father to such a degree, 
that all the intercession of friends in his favour 
was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his 
death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among 
the number, gathered round him. • I leave my 
second son Andrew,' said the expiring miser, 
' my whole estate, and desire him to be frugal.' 
Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is usual on these 
occasions, ' prayed heaven to prolong his life and 
health to enjoy it himself.' — ' I recommend Simon, 
my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and 
leave him beside four thousand pounds.' — ' Ah, 
father !' cried Simon, (in great affliction to be sure,) 
' may heaven give you life and health to enjoy it 
yourself! ' At last, turning to poor Dick, ' as for 
you, you have always been a sad dog — you'll ne- 
ver come to good, you'll never be rich ; I'll leave 
you a shilling to buy a halter.' — 'Ah, father!' 
cries Dick, without any emotion, 'may heaven 
give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!' 
This was all the trouble the loss of fortune gave 
this thoughtless, imprudent creature. However, 
the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the ne- 
glect of a father ; and Dick is not only excessively 
good humoured, but competently rich. 

The world, in short, may cry out at a bankrupt 
who appears at a ball; at an author, who laughs 
at the public which pronounces him a dunce ; at 
a general, who smiles at the reproach of the vul- 
gar; or the lady, who keeps her good humour in 
spite of scandal : but such is the wisest behaviour 
they can possibly assume. It is Oertainly a bet- 
ter way to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to 
take up the arms of reason or resolution to op- 
pose it : by the first method we forget our mise- 
ries, by the last we only conceal them from others. 
By struggling with misfortunes, we are sure to 
receive some wounds in the conflict : the only 
method to come off victorious, is by running 
away. 



298 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY. 

Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the 
whole world admires. His generosity is such 
that it prevents a demand, and saves the receiver 
the trouble and the confusion of the request. His 
liberality also does not oblige more by its great- 
ness than by his inimitable grace in giving. 
Sometimes he even distributes his bounties to 
strangers, and has been known to do good offices 
to those who professed themselves his enemies. 
All the world are unanimous in the praise of his 
generosity : there is only one sort of people who 
complain of his conduct, — Lysippus does not pay 
his debts. 

It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct 
.so seemingly incompatible with itself. There is 
greatness in being generous, and there is only 
simple justice in satisfying his creditors. Gene- 
rosity is the part of a soul raised above the vul- 
gar. There is in it something of what we admire 
in heroes, and praise with a degree of rapture. 
Justice, on the contrary, is a mere mechanic vir- 
tue, fit only for tradesmen, and what is practised 
by every broker in Change Alley. 

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, 
and it is an action attended with no sort of glory. 
Should Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would 
be at the pains of telling it to the world? Gene- 
rosity is a virtue of a very different complexion. 
It is raised above duty, and, from its elevation, 
attracts the attention and the praises of us little 
mortals below. 

In this manner do men generally reason upon 
justice and generosity. The first is despised, 
though a virtue essential to the good of society ; 
and the other attracts our esteem, which too fre- 
quently proceeds from an impetuosity of temper, 
rather directed by vanity than reason. Lysippus 
is told that his banker asks a debt of forty pounds, 
and that a distressed acquaintance petitions for 
the same sum. He gives it without hesitating to 
the latter ; for he demands as a favour what the 
former requires as a debt. 

Mankind in general are not sufficiently ac- 
quainted with the import of the word justice ; it 
is commonly believed to consist only in a per- 
formance of those duties to which the laws of 
society can oblige us. This, I allow, is some- 
times the import of the word, and in this sense 
justice is distinguished from equity ; but there is 
a justice still more extensive, and which can be 
shewn to embrace all the virtues united. 

Justice may be defined to be that virtue which 
impels us to give to every person what is his due. 
In this extended sense of the word, it compre- 
hends the practice of every virtue which reason 
prescribes, or society should expect. Our duty to 
our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are 
fully answered, if we give them what we owe 
them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the 
only virtue, and all the rest have their origin 
in it. 

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and 
generosity, for instance, are not, in their own na- 
ture, virtues ; and if ever they deserve the title, 
it is owing only to justice, which impels and di- 
rects them. Without such a moderator, candour 



might become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, 
charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken pro- 
fusion. 

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by 
justice, is at best indifferent in its nature, and 
not unfrequently even turns to vice. The ex- 
penses of society, of presents, of entertainments, 
and the other helps to cheerfulness, are actions 
merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a bet- 
ter method of disposing of our superfluities ; but 
they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust 
our abilities from a more virtuous disposition of 
our circumstances. 

True generosity is a duty as indispensably ne- 
cessary as those imposed upon us by law. It is a 
rule imposed upon us by reason, which should 
be the sovereign law of a rational being. But 
this generosity does not consist in obeying every 
impulse of humanity, in following blind passion 
for our guide, and impairing our circumstances 
by present benefactions, so as to render us incapa- 
ble of future ones. 

Misers are generally characterized as men 
without honour or without humanity, who live 
only to accumulate, and to this passion sacrifice 
every other happiness. They have been described 
as madmen, who, in the midst of abundance, 
banish every pleasure, and make from imaginary 
wants real necessities. But few, very few, cor- 
respond to this exaggerated picture ; and perhaps 
there is not one in whom all these circumstances 
are found united. Instead of this, we find the 
sober and the industrious branded by the vain 
and the idle with this odious appellation ; men 
"'ho. by frugality and labour, raise themselves 
above their equals, and contribute their share of 
industry to the common stock. 

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, 
well were it for society had we more of this cha- 
racter among us. In general, these close men 
are found at last the true benefactors of society. 
With an avaricious man we seldom lose in our 
dealings; but too frequently in our commerce 
with prodigality. 

A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went 
for a long time by the name of the Griper. He 
refused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, 
and, by a skilful management of his vineyard, 
had the good fortune to acquire immense sums 
of money. The inhabitants of Rheims, who were 
his fellow-citizens, detested him ; and the popu- 
lace, who seldom love a miser, wherever he went 
received him with contempt. He still, however, 
continued his former simplicity of life, his amaz- 
ing and unremitted frugality. This good man 
had long perceived the wants of the poor in the 
city, particularly in having no water, but what 
they were obliged to buy at an advanced price ; 
wherefore, that whole fortune which he had been 
amassing, he laid out in an aqueduct, by which 
he did the poor more useful and lasting service, 
than if he had distributed his whole income in 
charity every day at his door. 

Among men long conversant with books, we too 
frequently find those misplaced virtues of which 
I have been now complaining. We find the stu- 
dious animated with a strong passion for the 
great virtues, as they are mistakingly called, and 
utterly forgetful of the ordinary ones. The de- 
clamations of philosophy are generally rather ex- 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



299 



hausted on these supererogatory duties, than on 
such as are indispensably necessary. A man, 
therefore, who has taken his ideas of mankind 
from study alone, generally comes into the world 
with a heart melting at every fictitious distress. 
Thus he is induced, by misplacing liberality, to 
put himself into the indigent circumstances of 
the person he relieves. 

I shall conclude this paper with the advice of 
one of the ancients, to a young man whom he 
saw giving away all his substance to pretended 
distress. • It is possible that the person you re- 
lieve may be an honest man ; and I know that 
you who relieve him are, such. You see, then, by 
your generosity, you only rob a man who is cer- 
tainly deserving, to bestow it on one who may 
possibly be a rogue ; and, while you are unjust in 
rewarding uncertain merit, you are doubly guilty 
by stripping yourself.' 



,' SOME PARTICULARS RELATING TO 

FATHER FREIJO. 

Primus mortales tollere contra 
Est oculos ausus, primusque assurgere contra. — Lucr. 

The Spanish nation has, for many centuries past, 
been remarkable for the grossest ignorance in 
polite literature, especially in point of natural 
philosophy — a science so useful to mankind, that 
her neighbours have ever esteemed it a matter of 
the greatest importance to endeavour, by repeated 
experiments, to strike a light out of the chaos in 
which truth seemed to be confounded. Their 
curiosity in this respect was so indifferent, that 
though they had discovered new worlds, they 
were at a loss to explain the phenomena of their 
own, and their pride so unaccountable, that they 
disdained to borrow from others that instruction 
which their natural indolence permitted them not 
to acquire. 

It gives me, however, a secret satisfaction to 
behold an extraordinary genius now existing in 
that nation, whose studious endeavours seem 
calculated to undeceive the superstitious, and in- 
struct the ignorant,— I mean the celebrated Padre 
Freijo. In unravelling the mysteries of nature, and 
explaining physical experiments, he takes an op- 
portunity of displaying the concurrence of second 
causes, in those very wonders which the vulgar 
ascribe to supernatural influence. 

An example of this kind happened a few years 
ago in a small town of the kingdom of "Valencia. 
Passing through at the hour of mass, he alighted 
from his mule, and proceeded to the parish 
church, which he found extremely crowded, and 
there appeared on the faces of the faithful a more 
than usual alacrity. The sun, it seems, which 
had been for some minutes under a cloud, had 
begun to shine on a large crucifix, that stood on 
the middle of the altar, studded with several pre- 
cious stones. The reflexion from these, and from 
the diamond eyes of some silver saints, so daz- 
zled the multitude, that they unanimously cried 
out, • A miracle ! a miracle !' whilst the priest at 
the altar, with seeming consternation, continued 
his heavenly conversation. Padre Freijo soon 
dissipated the charm, by tying his handkerchief 
round the head of one of the statues, for which 



he was arraigned by the Inquisition; whose 
flames, however, he has had the good fortune 
hitherto to escape. 



ON EDUCATION. 

TO THE AUTHOR OP THE 'BEE.* 

Sir, — As few subjects are more interesting to 
society, so few have been more frequently written 
upon, than the education of youth. Yet is it not 
a little surprising, that it should have been treated 
almost by all in a declamatory manner 1 They 
have insisted largely on the advantages that result 
from it, both to the individual and to society, and 
have expatiated in the praise of what no one has 
ever been so hardy as to call in question. 

Instead of giving us fine but empty harangues 
upon this subject, instead of indulging each his 
particular and whimsical system, it had been 
much better if the writers on this subject had 
treated it in a more scientific manner, repressed 
all the sallies of imagination, and given us the 
result of their observations with didactic sim- 
plicity. Upon this subject the smallest errors are 
of the most dangerous consequence; and the 
author should venture the imputation of stupidity 
upon a topic, where his slightest deviations may 
tend to injure the rising generation. 

I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts 
upon this subject, which have not been attended 
to by others, and shall dismiss all attempts to 
please, while I study only instructions. 

The manner in which our youth of London are 
at present educated is, some in free schools in the 
city, but the far greater number in boarding 
schools about town. The parent justly consults 
the health of his child, and finds that an education 
in the country tends to promote this much more 
than a continuance in the town. Thus far they 
are right : if there were a possibility of having 
even our free schools kept a little out of ,town, 
it would certainly conduce to the health and 
vigour perhaps of the mind as well as of the body. 
It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth, — I 
have found by experience, that they who have 
spent all their lives in cities, contract not only an 
effeminacy of habit, but even of thinking. 

But when I have said, that the boarding schools 
are preferable to free schools, as being in the 
country, this is certainly the only advantage I can 
allow them ; otherwise it is impossible to conceive 
the ignorance of those who take upon them the 
important trust of education. Is any man unfit 
for any of the professions ? he finds his last re- 
source in setting up a school. Do any become 
bankrupts in trade? they still setup a boarding 
school, and drive a trade this way, when all others 
fail : nay, I have been told of butchers and bar- 
bers, who have turned schoolmasters ; and, more 
surprising still, made fortunes in their new pro- 
fessions. 

Could we think ourselves in a country of civi- 
lized people — could it be conceived that we have 
any regard for posterity, when such are permitted 
to take the charge of the morals, genius, and 
health of those dear little pledges, who may one 
day be the guardians of the liberties of Europe, 
and who may serve as the honour and bulwark of 



300 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



their aged parents? The care of our children, is it 
below the state? is it fit to indulge the caprice of 
the ignorant with the disposal of their children in 
this particular ? For the state to take the charge 
of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, might at 
present he inconvenient; but surely with great 
ease it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of 
all members of society, I do not know a more 
useful, or a more honourable one, than a school- 
master; at the same time that I do not see any 
more generally despised, or whose talents are so 
ill rewarded. 

Were the salaries of schoolmasters to he aug- 
mented from a diminution of useless sinecures, 
how might it turn to the advantage of this people 
— a people whom, without flattery, I may in other 
respects term the wisest and greatest upon earth ! 
But, while I would reward the deserving, I would 
dismiss those utterly unqualified for their employ- 
ment : in short, I would make the business of a 
schoolmaster every way more respectable, by in- 
creasing their salaries, and admitting only men of 
proper abilities. 

There are already schoolmasters appointed, and 
they have some small salaries ; but where at pre- 
sent there is but one schoolmaster appointed, there 
should at least be two; and wherever the salary- 
is at present twenty pounds, it should he a hun- 
dred. Do we give immoderate benefices to those 
who instruct ourselves, and shall we deny even 
subsistence to those who instruct our children? 
Every member of society should be paid in pro- 
portion as he is necessary: and I will he bold 
enough to say, that schoolmasters in a state are 
more necessary than clergymen, as children 
stand in more need of instruction than their 
parents. 

But, instead of this, as I have already observed, 
we send them to board in the country to the most 
ignorant set of men that can be imagined. But 
lest the ignorance of the master be not sufficient, 
the child is generally consigned to the usher. 
This is generally some poor needy animal, little 
superior to a footman either in learning or spirit, 
invited to his place by an advertisement, and kept 
there merely from his being of a complying dis- 
position, and making the children fond of him. 
' You give your child to be educated to a slave,* 
says a philosopher to a rich man ; ' instead of one 
slave, you will then have two.' 

It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing 
their children in one of these houses, would 
examine the abilities of the usher as well as of the 
master; for, whatever they are told to the con- 
trary, the usher is generally the person most em- 
ployed in their education. If, then, a gentleman, 
upon putting out his son to one of these houses, 
sees the usher disregarded by the master, he may 
depend upon it, that he is equally disregarded by 
the boys; the truth is, in spite of all their endea- 
vours to please, they are generally the laughing- 
stock of the sshool. Every trick is played upon 
the usher; the oddity of his manners, his dress, or 
his language, is a fund of eternal ridicule; the 
master himself now and then cannot avoid joining 
in the laugh, and the poor wretch, eternally re- 
senting this ill usage, seems to live iu a state of 
war with all the family. This is a very proper 
person, is it not, to give children a relish for learn- 
ing? They must esteem learning very much, when 



they see its professors used with such ceremony! 
If the usher be despised, the father may be assured 
his child will never be properly instructed. 

But let me suppose, that there are some schools 
without these inconveniences, — where the master 
and ushers are men of learning, reputation, and 
assiduity. If there are to be found such, they 
cannot be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy 
will learn more true wisdom in a public school in 
a year, than by a private education in five. It is 
not from masters, but from their equals, youth 
learn a knowledge of the world : the little tricks 
they play each other, the punishment that fre- 
quently attends the commission, is a just picture 
of the great world, and all the ways of men are 
practised in a public school in miniature. It is 
true, a child is early made acquainted with some 
vices in a school, but it is better to know these 
when a boy, than be first taught them when a 
man, for their novelty then may have irresistible 
charms. ' 

In a public education boys early learn temper- 
ance ; and if the parents and friends would give 
them less money upon their usual visits, it would 
be much to their advantage, since it may justly be 
said, that a great part of their disorders arise 
from surfeit, — plus occidit gula quam gladius. 
And now I am come to the article of health, it 
may not be amiss to observe, that Mr. Locke and 
some others have advised, that children should 
be inured to cold, fatigue, and hardship, from 
their youth ; but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent 
physician. Habit, I grant, has great influence 
over our constitutions, but we have not precise 
ideas upon this subject 

We know that, among savages, and even among 
our peasants, there are found children born with 
such constitutions, that they cross rivers by 
swimming, endure cold, thirst, hunger, and want 
of sleep, to a surprising degree ; that when they 
happen to fall sick, they are cured, without the 
help of medicine, by nature alone. Such exam- 
ples are adduced, to persuade us to imitate their 
manner of education, and accustom ourselves be- 
times to support the same fatigues. But had 
these gentlemen considered, first, that those savages 
and peasants are generally not so long lived as 
they who have led a more indolent life ; secondly, 
that the more laborious the life is, the less popu- 
lous is the country: had they considered, that 
what physicians call the stamina vitce, by fatigue 
and labour become rigid, and thus anticipate old 
age; that the number who survive those rude 
trials, bears no proportion to those who die in the 
experiment : had these things been properly con- 
sidered, they would not have thus extolled an 
education begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter 
the Great, willing to inure the children of his 
seamen to a life of hardship, ordered that they 
should drink only sea water, but they unfortu- 
nately all died under the experiment. 

But while I would exclude all unnecessary 
labours, yet still I would recommend temperance 
in the highest degree. No luxurious dishes with 
high seasoning, nothing given children to force an 
appetite, as little sugared or salted provisions as 
possible, though never so pleasing; but milk, 
morning and night, should he their constant food. 
This diet would make them more healthy than 
any of those slops that are usually cooked by the 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



301 



mistress of a boarding school; besides, it corrects 
any consumptive habits, not unfrequently found 
amongst the children of city parents. 

As boys should be educated with temperance, 
so the first greatest lesson that should be taught 
them is, to admire frugality. It is by the exer- 
cise of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to 
be useful members of society. It is true, lectures 
continually repeated upon this subject, may make 
some boys, when they grow up, run into an ex- 
treme, and become misers ; but it were well had 
we more misers than we have among lis. I know 
few characters more useful in society ; for a man's 
having a larger or smaller share of money lying 
useless by him no way injures the commonwealth ; 
since, should every miser now exhaust his stores, 
this might make gold more plenty, but it would 
not increase the commodities or pleasures of life ; 
they would still remain as they are at present : it 
matters not, therefore, whether men are misers 
or not, if they be only frugal, laborious, and fill 
the station they have chosen. If they deny them- 
selves the necessaries of life, society is no way 
injured by their folly. 

Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise 
young men of spirit, who go through a variety of 
adventures, and, at last, conclude a life of dissipa- 
tion, folly, and extravagance, in riches and matri- 
mony, there should be some men of wit employed 
to compose books that might equally interest the 
passions of our youth; where such a one might 
be praised for having resisted allurements when 
young, and how he, at last, became lord mayor — 
how he was married to a lady of great sense, 
fortune, and beauty : to be as explicit as possible, 
the old story of Whittington, were his cat left out, 
might be more serviceable to the tender mind than 
either Tom Jones, Joseph Andrew's, or a hundred 
others, where frugality is the only good quality 
the hero is not possessed of. Were our school- 
masters, if any of them had sense enough to 
draw up such a work, thus employed, it would be 
much more serviceable to their pupils, than all 
the grammars and dictionaries they may publish 
these ten years. 

Children should early be instructed in the arts, 
from which they would afterwards draw the great- 
est advantages. When the wonders of nature are 
never exposed to our view, we have no great 
desire to become acquainted with those parts of 
learning which pretend to account for the phe- 
nomena. One of the ancients complains, that as 
soon as young men have left school, and are 
obliged to converse in the world, they fancy them- 
selves transported into a new region : * Ut cum 
in forum venerint existiment se in aliam terrarum 
orbem delatos.' We should early, therefore, in- 
struct them in the experiments, if I may so 
express it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer 
age the accounting for the causes. But instead 
of that, when boys begin natural philosophy in 
colleges, they have not the least curiosity for 
those parts of the science which are proposed for 
their instruction; they have never before seen 
the phenomena, and consequently have no cu- 
riosity to learn the reasons. Might natural phi- 
losophy, therefore, be made their pastime in 
school, by this means it trould in college become 
their amusement. 

In several of the machines now in use, there 



would be ample field both for instruction and 
amusement : the different sorts of the phosphorus, 
the artificial pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the 
experiments upon the rarefaction and weight of 
the air, and those upon elastic bodies, might 
employ their idle hours, and none should be 
called from play to see such experiments but 
such as thought proper. At first, then, it would 
be sufficient if the instruments, and the effects of 
their combination, were only shewn; the causes 
should be deferred to a maturer age, or to those 
times when natural curiosity prompts us to dis- 
cover the wonders of nature. Man is placed in 
this world as a spectator; when he is tired with 
wondering at all the novelties about him, and not 
till then, does he desire to be made acquainted 
with the causes that create those wonders. 

What I have observed with regard to natural 
philosophy, I would extend to every other science 
whatsoever. We should teach them as many o< 
the facts as were possible, and defer the causes 
until they seemed ' of themselves desirous of 
knowing them. A mind thus leaving school 
stored with all the simple experiences of science, 
would be the fittest in the world for the college 
course ; and though such a youth might not 
appear so bright, or so talkative, as those who had 
learned the real principles and causes of some of 
the sciences, yet he would make a wiser man, and 
would retain a more lasting passion for letters, 
than he who was early burdened with the dis- 
agreeable institution of effect and cause. 

In history, such stories alone should be laid 
before them as might catch the imagination : in- 
stead of this, they are too frequently obliged to 
toil through the four empires, as they are called, 
where their memories are burdened by a number 
of disgusting names, that destroy all their future 
relish for our best historians, who may be termed 
the truest teachers of wisdom. 

Every species of flattery should be carefully 
avoided : a boy, who happens to say a sprightly 
thing, is generally applauded so much, that he 
happens to continue a coxcomb sometimes all his 
life after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and 
becomes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, foot- 
men, and such, should therefore be driven away, 
as much as possible. I was even going to add, 
that the mother herself should stifle her pleasure 
or her vanity, when little master happens to say a 
good or smart thing. Those modest lubberly 
boys who seem to want spirit, generally go through 
their business with more ease to themselves, and 
more satisfaction to their instructors. 

There has of late a gentleman appeared, who 
thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect 
education. That bold male eloquence, which 
often without pleasing convinces, is generally 
destro3"ed by such institutions. Convincing elo- 
quence, however, is infinitely more serviceable to 
its possessor than the most florid harangue, or 
the most pathetic tones that can be imagined; 
and the man who is thoroughly convinced him- 
self, who understands his subject, and the lan- 
guage he speaks in, will be more apt to silence 
opposition, than he who studies the force of his 
periods, and fills our ears with sounds, while our 
minds are destiute of conviction. 

It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the 
decline of the Roman empire, when they had 



302 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



been long instructed by rhetoricians, that their 
periods were so harmonious, as that they could 
be sung as well as spoken. What a ridiculous 
figure must one of these gentlemen cut, thus 
measuring syllables, and weighing words, when 
he should plead the cause of his client ! Two 
architects were once candidates for the building 
a certain temple at Athens: the first harangued 
the crowd very learnedly upon the different orders 
of architecture, and shewed them in what manner 
the temple should be built: the other, who got 
up to speak after him, only observed, that what 
his brother had spoken he could do ; and thus he 
at once gained his cause. 

To teach men to be orators, is little less than to 
teach them to be poets ; and for my part, I should 
have too great a regard for my child, to wish him 
a manor only in a bookseller's shop. 

Another passion which the present age is apt to 
run into, is to make children learn all things — 
the languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, 
and painting. Thus the child soon becomes a 
talker in all, but a master in none. He thus 
acquires a superficial fondness for every thing, 
and only shews his ignorance when he attempts 
to exhibit his skill. 

As I deliver my thoughts without method or 
connection, so the reader must not be surprised 
to find me once more addressing schoolmasters 
on the present method of teaching the learned 
languages, which is commonly by literal trans- 
lations. . I would ask such, if they were to travel 
a journey, whether those parts of the road in 
which they found the greatest difficulties would 
not be most strongly remembered? Boys who, 
if I may continue the allusion, gallop through 
one of the ancients with the assistance of a 
translation, can have but a very slight acquaint- 
ance either with the author or his language. It 
is by the exercise of the mind alone that a lan- 
guage is learned ; but a literal translation, on the 
opposite page, leaves no exercise for the memory 
at all. The boy will not be at the fatigue of re- 
membering, when his doubts are at once satisfied 
by a glance of the eye ; whereas, were every word 
to be sought from a dictionary, the learner would 
attempt to remember, in order to save him the 
trouble of looking out for it for the future. 

To continue in the same pedantic strain, though 
no schoolmaster, of all the various grammars now 
taught in schools about town, I would recommend 
only the old common one ; I have forgot whether 
Lilly's, or an emendation of him. The others 
may be improvements; but such improvements 
seem to me only mere grammatical niceties, no 
way influencing the learner, but perhaps loading 
him with trifling subtleties, which at a proper 
age he must be at some pains to forget. 

Whatever pains a master may take to make the 
learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, 
he may depend upon it, it will be at first ex- 
tremely unpleasant. The rudiments of every 
language, therefore, must be given as a task, not 
as an amusement. Attempting to deceive children 
into instruction of this kind, is only deceiving 
ourselves ; and I know no passion capable of con- 
quering a child's natural laziness but fear. Solo- 
mon has said it before me ; nor is there any more 
certain, though perhaps more disagreeable truth, 
than the proverb in verse, too well known to 



repeat on the present occasion. It is very pro- 
bable that parents are told of some masters who 
never use the rod, and consequently are thought 
the properest instructors for their children; but 
though tenderness is a requisite quality in an 
instructor, yet there is too often the truest ten- 
derness in well-timed correction. 

Some have justly observed, that all passion 
should be banished on this terrible occasion ; but, 
I know not how, there is a frailty attending 
human nature, that few masters are able to keep 
their temper whilst they correct. I knew a good- 
natured man, who was sensible of his own weak- 
ness in this respect, and consequently had recourse 
to the following expedient to prevent his passions 
from being engaged, yet at the same time ad- 
minister justice with impartiality. Whenever any 
of his pupils committed a fault, he summoned a 
jury of his peers — I mean of the boys of his own 
or the next classes to him; his accusers stood 
forth; he had a liberty of pleading in his own 
defence, and one or two more had a liberty of 
pleading against him : when found guilty by the 
panel, he was consigned to the footman who at- 
tended in the house, who had previous orders to 
punish, but with lenity. By this means the 
master took off the odium of punishment from 
himself; and the footman, between whom and 
the boys there could not be even the slightest 
intimacy, was placed in such a light as to be 
shunned by every boy in the school. 

And now I have gone thus far, perhaps you 
will think me some pedagogue, willing, by a well- 
timed puff, to increase the reputation of his own 
school ; but such is not the case. The regard I 
have for society, for those tender minds who are 
the objects of the present essay, is the only motive 
I have for offering those thoughts, calculated not 
to surprise by their novelty, or the elegance of 
composition, but merely to remedy some defects 
which have crept into the present system of school 
education. If this letter should be inserted, per- 
haps I may trouble you in my next with some 
thoughts upon a university education, not with 
an intent to exhaust the subject, but to amend 
some few abuses. I am, &c. 



ON THE 

INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR. 

An alehouse keeper near Islington, who had long 
lived at the sign of the French King, upon the 
commencement of the last war with France pulled 
down his old sign, and put up the Queen of Hun- 
gary. Under the influence of her red face and 
golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale till she 
was no longer the favourite of his customers ; he 
changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the 
King of Prussia, who may probably be changed in 
turn for the next great man that shall be set up 
for vulgar admiration. 

Our publican in this imitates the great exactly, 
who deal out their figures, one after the other, to 
the gazing crowd beneath them. When we have 
sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and 
another exhibited in its room, which seldom holds 
its station long, for the mob are ever pleased with 
variety. 



miscella^^e )us pieces. 



303 



I must own I have such an indifferent opinion 
of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that 
merit which raises their shout ; at least I am cer- 
tain to find those great, and sometimes good men, 
who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made 
worse by it ; and history has too frequently taught 
me, that the head which has grown this day giddy 
with the roar of the million, has the very next 
been fixed upon a pole. 

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in 
the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just 
evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the towns- 
men busy in the market-place in pulling down 
from a gibbet a figure, which had been designed 
to represent himself. There were also some 
knocking down a neighbouring statue of one of 
the Orsini family, with whom he was at war, in 
order to put Alexander's effigy, when taken down, 
in its place. It is possible a man who knew less 
of the world would have condemned the adulation 
of those barefaced flatterers ; but Alexander seemed 
pleased at their zeal, and, turning to Borgia his 
son, said with a smile, Vides, mi fill, quam leve 
discrimen patibulum inter et statuum. 'You 
see, my son, the small difference between a gibbet 
and a statue.' If the great could be taught any 
lesson, this might serve to teach them upon how 
weak a foundation their glory stands, which is 
built upon popular applause; for as such praise 
what seems like merit, they as quickly condemn 
what has only the appearance of guilt. 

Popular glory is a perfect coquette : her lovers 
must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every 
caprice, and perhaps at last be jilted into the 
bargain. True glory, on the other hand, resem- 
bles a woman of sense : her admirers must play 
no tricks ; they feel no great anxiety, for they are 
sure in the end of being rewarded in proportion 
to their merit. "When Swift used to appear in 
public, he generally had the mob shouting in his 
train. 'P— take these fools!' he would say, 
' how much joy might all this bawling give my 
lord mayor!' 

We have seen those virtues which have, while 
riving, retired from the public eye generally 
transmitted to posterity as the truest objects of 
admiration and praise. Perhaps the character of 
the late duke of Marlborough may one day be set 
up, even above that of his more talked of pre- 
decessor; since an assemblage of all the mild and 
amiable virtues is far superior to those vulgarly 
called the great ones. I must be pardoned for 
this short tribute to the memory of a man, who, 
while living, would as much detest to receive any 
thing that wore the appearance of flattery, as I 
should to offer it. 

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of 
the beaten road of commonplace, except by illus- 
trating it, rather by the assistance of my memory 
than my judgment, and instead of making reflec- 
tions, by telling a story. 

A Chinese, who had long studied the works of 
Confucius, who knew the characters of fourteen 
thousand words, and could read a great part of 
every book that came in his way, once took it 
into his head to travel into Europe, and observe 
the customs of a people whom he thought not 
very much inferior even to his own countrymen, 
in the arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon 
bis arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters 



naturally led him to a bookseller's shop : and, as 
he could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the 
bookseller for the works of the immortal Ilixofou. 
The bookseller assured him he had never heard 
the book mentioned before. 'What! have you 
never heard of that immortal poet?' returned the 
other, much surprised; 'that light of the eyes, 
that favourite of kings, that rose of perfection ! I 
suppose you know nothing of the immortal Fip- 
sihihi, second cousin to the moon?' — 'Nothing 
at all, indeed, sir,' returned the other. — 'Alas!' 
cries our traveller, ' to what purpose, then, has 
one of these fasted to death, and the other offered 
himself up as a sacrifice to the Tartarean enemy, 
to gain a renown which has never travelled be- 
yond the precincts of China !' 

There is scarcely a village in Europe, and not 
one university, that is not thus furnished with its 
little great men. The head of a petty corporation, 
who opposes the designs of a prince who would 
tyranically force his subjects to save their best 
clothes for Sundays — the puny pedant who finds 
one undiscovered property in the polype, describes 
an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, 
and whose mind, like his microscope, perceives 
nature only in detail — the rhymer who makes 
smooth verses, and paints to our imagination 
when he should only speak to our hearts, — all 
equally fancy themselves walking forward to im- 
mortality, and desire the crowd behind them to 
look on. The crowd takes them at their word 
Patriot, philosopher, and poet, are shouted in 
their train. Where was there ever so much 
merit seen ? no times so important as our own ! 
ages yet unborn shall gaze with wonder and ap- 
plause! To such music the important pigmy 
moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly 
compared to a puddle in a storm. 

I have lived to see generals, who once had 
crowds hallooing after them wherever they went, 
who were bepraised by newspapers and magazines, 
those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet 
they have long sunk into merited obscurity, with 
scarcely even an epitaph left to flatter. A few 
years ago, the herring fishery employed all Grub- 
street; it was the topic in every coffeehouse, and 
the burden of every ballad. We were to drag up 
oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea; we 
were to supply all Europe with herrings upon 
our own terms. At present we hear no more of 
all this. We have fished up very little gold that 
I can learn; nor do we furnish the world with 
herrings as was expected. Let us wait but a few 
years longer, and we shalL rlad all our expecta 
tions a herring fishery. 



THi: SENTIMENTS GF A FltEXCSMAM 

O:^ THE THMPEK OF THE ENGLISH, 

Nothing is so uncommon arno£>£ ihs E. 
that easy affability, that instant metnod of ac- 
quaintance, or thai cheerfulness of disposition, 
which make in France the charm of every society. 
Yet in this gloomy reserve they seem to pride 
themselves, and think themselves less happy if 
obliged to be more social. One may assert, with- 
out wronging them, that they do not study the 



304 



GOLDSxMlTH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



method of going through life with pleasure and I 
tranquillity like the French. Might not this be a 
proof that they are not so much philosophers as 
they imagine? Philosophy is no more than the 
art of making ourselves happy; that is, of seeking 
pleasure in regularity, and reconciling what we 
owe to society with what is due to ourselves. 

This cheerfulness, which is the characteristic 
of our nation, in the eye of an Englishman passes 
almost for folly. But is their gloominess a greater 
mark of their wisdom? and, folly against folly, is 
not the most cheerful sort the best? If our gaiety 
makes them sad, they ought not to find it strange 
if their seriousness makes us laugh. 

As this disposition to levity is not familiar to 
them, and as they look on every thing as a fault 
which they do not find at home, the English who 
live among us are hurt by it. Several of their 
authors reproach us with it as a vice, or at least 
as a ridicule. 

Mr. Addison styles us a comic nation. In my 
opinion, it is not acting the philosopher on this 
point, to regard as a fault that quality which con- 
tributes most to the pleasure of society and hap- 
piness of life. Plato, convinced that whatever 
makes men happier makes them better, advises 
to neglect nothing that may excite and convert 
to an early habit this sense of joy in children. 
Seneca places it in the first rank of good things. 
Certain it is, at least, that gaiety may be a con- 
comitant of all sorts of virtue, but that there are 
some vices with which it is incompatible. 

As to him who laughs at every thing, and him 
who laughs at nothing, neither of them has sound 
judgment. All the difference I find between them 
is, that the last is constantly the most unhappy. 
Those who speak against cheerfulness, prove 
nothing else but that they were born melancholic, 
and that, in their hearts, they rather envy than 
condemn that levity they affect to despise. 

The Spectator, whose constant object was the 
good of mankind in general, and of his own 
nation in particular, should, according to his own 
principles, place cheerfulness among the most 
desirable qualities; and, probably, whenever he 
contradicts himself in this particular, it is only 
to conform to the tempers of the people whom he 
addresses. He asserts, that gaiety is one great 
obstacle to the prudent conduct of women. But 
are those of a melancholy temper, as the English 
women generally are, less subject to the foibles of 
love ? I am acquainted with some doctors in this 
science, to whose judgment I would more wil- 
lingly refer than to his. And perhaps, in reality, 
persons naturally of a gay temper, are too easily 
taken off by different objects to give themselves 
up to all the excesses of this passion. 

Mr. Hobbes, a celebrated philosopher of his 
nation, maintains that laughing proceeds from 
our pride alone. This is only a paradox, if as- 
serted of laughing in general, and only argues 
that misanthropical disposition for which he was 
remarkable. 

To bring the causes he assigns for laughing 
under suspicion, it is sufficient to remark, that 
proud people are commonly those who laugh 
least. Gravity is the inseparable companion of 
pride. To say that a man is vain, because the 
humour of a writer, or the buffooneries of a har- 
lequin, excite his laughter, would be advancing 



a great absurdity. We should distinguish be- 
tween laugnter inspired by joy, and that which 
arises from mockery. The malicious sneer is 
improperly called laughter. It must be owned, 
that pride is the parent of such laughter as this : 
but this is, in itself, vicious ; whereas, the other 
sort has nothing in its principles or effects that 
deserves condemnation. We find this amiable in 
others, and is it unhappiness to feel a disposition 
towards it in ourselves 2 

When I see an Englishman laugh, I fancy I 
rather see him hunting after joy than having 
caught it ; and this is more particularly remark- 
able in their women, whose tempers are inclined 
to melancholy. A laugh leaves no more traces 
on their countenance, than a flash of lightning 
on the face of the heavens. The most laughing 
air is instantly succeeded 'by the most gloomy. 
One would be apt to think that their souls open 
with difficulty to joy, or, at least, that joy is not 
pleased with its habitation there. 

In regard to fine raillery, it must be allowed, 
that it is not natural to the English, and, there- 
fore, those who endeavour at it make but an ill 
figure. Some of their authors have candidly con- 
fessed, that pleasantry is quite foreign to their 
character ; but, according to the reason they give, 
they lose nothing by this confession. Bishop 
Sprat gives the following one : — ' The English,' 
says he, 'have too much bravery to be derided, 
and too much virtue and honour to mock others. 



AN ACCOUNT OF THE 

AUGUSTAN AGE OF ENGLAND. 

The history of the rise of language and learning 
is calculated to gratify curiosity rather than to 
satisfy the understanding. An account of that 
period only when language and learning arrived 
at its highest perfection, is the most conducive to 
real improvement, since it at once raises emula- 
tion, and directs to the proper objects. The age 
of Leo X. in Italy, is confessed to be the Augustan * 
age with them. The French writers seem agreed 
to give the same appellation to that of Louis XIV. ; 
but the English are yet undetermined with respect 
to themselves. 

Some have looked upon the writers in the times 
of queen Elizabeth as the true standard for future 
imitation ; others have descended to the reign of 
James I., and others still lower, to that of Charles 
II. Were I to be permitted to offer an opinion 
upon this subject, I should readily give my vote 
for the reign of queen Anne, or some years before 
that period. It was then that taste was united 
to genius; and as before our writers charmed 
with their strength of thinking, so then they 
pleased with strength and grace united. In that 
period of British glory, though no writer attracts 
our attention singly, yet, like stars lost in each 
other's brightness, they have cast such a lustre 
upon the age in which they lived, that their 
minutest transactions will be attended to by pos- 
terity with a greater eagerness, than the most im- 
portant occurrences of even empires which have 
been transacted in greater obscurity. 



MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 



305 



At that period there seemed to be a just balance 
between patronage and the press. Before it, men 
were little esteemed whose only merit was genius ; 
and since, men who can prudently be content to 
catch the public, are certain of living without 
dependence. But the writers of the period of 
which I am speaking, were sufficiently esteemed 
by the great, and not rewarded enough by book- 
sellers to set them above dependence. Fame, 
consequently, then was the truest road to happi- 
ness ; a sedulous attention to the mechanical bu- 
siness of the day, makes the present never-failing 
I resource. 

The age of Charles II., -which our countrymen 
term the age of wit and immorality, produced 
some writers that at once served to improve our 
language and corrupt our hearts. The king him- 
self had a large share of knowledge, and some 
wit ; and his courtiers were generally men who 
had been brought up in the school of affliction 
and experience. For this reason, when the sun- 
shine of their fortune returned, they gave too 
great a loose to pleasure, and language was by 
them cultivated only as a mode of elegance. 
Hence it became more enervated, and was dashed 
with quaintnesses, which gave the public writings 
of those times a very illiberal air. 

L'Estrange, who was by no means so bad a 
writer as some have represented him, was sunk 
in party faction ; and having generally the worst 
side of the argument, often had recourse to scold- 
ing, pertness, and, consequently, a vulgarity that 
discovers itself even in his more liberal composi- 
tions. He was the first writer who regularly en- 
listed himself under the banners of a party for 
pay, and fought for it, through right and wrong, 
for upwards of forty literary campaigns. This in- 
trepidity gained him the esteem of Cromwell 
himself, and the papers he wrote even just before 
the Revolution, almost with the rope about his 
neck, have his usual characters of impudence and 
perseverance. That he was a standard writer 
cannot be disowned, because a great many very 
eminent authors formed their style by his. But 
his standard was far from being a just one; 
though, when party considerations are set aside,' 
he certainly was possessed of elegance, ease and 
perspicuity. 

Dryden, though a great anff uncrrspurecr genius, 
had the same cast as L'Estrange. Even his plays 
discover him to be a party man, and the same 
principle infects his style in subjects of the light- 
est nature; but the English tongue, as it stands 
at present, is greatly his debtor. He first gave it 
regular harmony, and discovered its latent powers 
It was his pen that formed the Congreves, the 
Priors, and the Addisons, who succeeded him- 
and had it not been for Dryden, we never should 
have known a Pope, at least, in the meridian lus- 
tre he now displays. But Dryden's excellences, 
as a writer, were not confined to poetry alone. 
There is, in his prose writings, an ease and elel 
gance that have never iyet been so well united in 
works of taste or criticism. 

The English language owes very little to Otway, 
though, next to Shakspeare, the greatest genius 
England ever produced in tragedy. His excel- 
lences lay in painting directly from nature, in 
catching every emotion just as it rises from the 
-soul, and in all the powers of the moving and 



pathetic. He appears to have had no learning, 
no critical knowledge, and to have lived in great 
distress. When he died, (which he did in an ob- 
scure house near the Minories,) he had about him 
the copy of a tragedy, which, it seems, he had 
sold for a trifle to Bentley, the bookseller. I have 
seen an advertisement at the end of one of 
L'Estrange's political papers, offering a reward to 
any one who should bring it to his shop. "What 
an invaluable treasure was there irretrievably 
lost by the ignorance and neglect of the age he 
lived in ! ; 

Lee had a great command orianguage, and vast 
force of expression, both which the best of our 
succeeding dramatic poets thought proper to take 
for their models. Rowe, in 'particular, seems to 
have caught that manner, though in all other re- 
spects inferior. The other poets of that reign 
contributed but little towards improving the Eng- 
lish tongue, and it is not certain whether they 
did not injure, rather than improve it. Immo- 
rality has its cant as well as party, and many 
shocking expressions now crept into the lan- 
guage, and became the transient fashion of the 
day. The upper galleries, by the prevalence of 
party spirit, were courted with great assiduity, 
and a horse-laugh following ribaldry was the 
highest instance of applause, the chastity as well 
as energy of diction being overlooked or ne- 
glected. 

Virtuous sentiment was recovered, but energy 
of style never was. This, though disregarded in 
plays and party writings, still prevailed amongst 
men of character and business. The despatches 
of sir Richard Fanshaw, sir William Godolphin, 
lord Arlington, and many other ministers of 
state, are all of them, with respect to diction, 
manly, bold, and nervous. Sir William Temple, 
though a man of no learning, had great know- 
ledge and experience. He wrote always like a 
man of sense and a gentleman ; and his style is 
the model by which the best prose writers in the 
reign of queen Anne formed theirs. The beau- 
ties of Mr. Locke's style, though not so much 
celebrated, are as striking as that of his under- 
standing. He never says more nor less than he 
ought, [and never makes use of a word that he 
could have changed for a better. The same ob- 
servation holds good of Dr. Samuel Clarke. 

Mr. Locke was a philosopher; his antagonist, 
Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester, was a man of 
learning ; and therefore the contest between them 
was unequal. The clearness of Mr. Locke's head 
renders his language perspicuous, the learning of 
Stillingfleet's clouds his. This is an instance of 
the superiority of good sense over learning, to- 
wards the improvement of every language. 

There is nothing peculiar to the language of 
archbishop Tillotson, but his manner of writing is 
inimitable ; for one who reads him, wonders why 
he himself did not think and speak it in that very 
manner. The turn of his periods is agreeable, 
though artless, and every thing hi* says seems to 
flow spontaneously from inward conviction. Bar- 
row, though greatly his superior in learning, falls 
short of him in other respects. 

The time seems to be at hand when justice -will 
be done to Mr. Cowley's prose, as well as poetical 
writings ; and though his friend Dr. Sprat, bishop 
of Rochester, in his diction falls far short of the 



306 



GOLDSMITH S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 



abilities for which lie has been celebrated, yet 
there is sometimes a happy flow in his periods, 
something that looks like eloquence. The style 
of his successor, Atterbury, has been much com- 
mended by his friends, which always happens 
when a man distinguishes himself in party ; but 
there is in it nothing extraordinary. Even the 
speech which he made for himself at the bar of 
the house of lords, before he was sent into exile, 
is void of eloquence though it has been cried up 
by his friends to such a degree, that his enemies 
have suffered it to pass uncensured. 

The philosophic manner of Lord Shaftesbury's 
writing is nearer to that of Cicero than any Eng- 
lish author has yet arrived at. ; but perhaps had 
Cicero written in English, his composition would 
have greatly exceeded that of our countryman. 
The diction of the latter is beautiful, but such 
beauty, as, upon nearer inspection, carries with it 
evident symptoms of affectation. This has been 
attended with very disagreeable consequences. 
Nothing is so easy to copy as affectation, and his 
lordship's rank and fame have procured him more 
imitators in Britain than any other writer I know ; 
all faithfully preserving his blemishes, but unhap- 
pily not one of his beauties. 

Mr. Trenchard and Dr. Davenant were politi- 
cal writers of great abilities in diction, and their 
pamphlets are now standards in that way of 
writing. They were followed by Dean Swift, who, 
though in other respects far their superior, never 
could arise to that manliness and clearness of dic- 
tion in political writing, for which they were so 
justly famous. 

They were all of them exceeded by the late lord 
Bolingbroke, whose strength lay in that province; 
for as a philosopher and a critic he was ill quali- 
fied, being destitute of virtue for the one, and of 
learning for the other. His writings against sir 
Robert Walpole are incomparably the best part of 
his works. The personal and perpetual antipathy 
he had for that family, to whose places he thought 
his own abilities had a right, gave a glow to his 
style, and an edge to his manner, that never yet 
have been equalled in political writing. Ilis mis- 
fortunes and disappointments gave his mind a 
turn which his friends mistook for philosophy, and 
at one time of nis life he had the art to impose the 
same belief upon some of his enemies. His idea 
of a patriot king, which I reckon (as indeed it was) 
amongst his writings against sir Robert Walpole, 
is a masterpiece of diction. Even in his other 
works, his style is excellent ; but where a man 
either does not, or will not understand the subject 
he writes on, there must always be a deficiency. 
In politics, he was generally master of what he 
undertook ; in morals, never. 

Mr. Addison, for a happy and natural style, will 
be always an honour to British literature. His 
diction, indeed, wants strength, but it is equal 
to all the subjects he undertakes to handle, as he 
never (at least in his finished works) attempts 
any thing eith6r in the argumentative or demon- 
strative way. 

Though sir Richard Steele's reputation as a 
public writer was owing to his connections with 
Mr. Addison, yet after their intimacy was formed, 
Steele sank in his merit as an author. This was 
not owing so much to the evident superiority on 
the part of Addison, as to the unnatural efforts 



which Steeje made to equal or eclipse him. This 
emulation destroyed that genuine flow of diction 
which is discoverable in all his former composi- 
tions. 

Whilst their writings engaged attention and the 
favour of the public, reiterated but unsuccessful 
endeavours were made towards forming a gram- 
mar of the English language. The authors of 
those efforts went upon wrong principles. In- 
stead of endeavouring to retrench the absurdities 
of our language, and bringing it to a certain cri- 
terion, their grammars were no other than a col- 
lection of rules attempting to naturalize those 
absurdities, and bring them under a regular 
system. 

Somewhat effectual, however, might have been 
done towards fixing the standard of the English 
language, had it not been for the spirit of party. 
For both whigs and tories being ambitious to 
stand at the head of so great a design, the queen's 
death happened before any plan of an academy 
could be resolved on. 

Meanwhile, the necessity of such an institution 
became every day more apparent. The periodical 
and political writers, who then swarmed, adopted 
the very worst manner of L'Estrange, till not only 
all decency, but all propriety of language, was lost 
in the nation. Leslie, a pert writer, with some wit 
and learning, insulted the government every week 
with the grossest abuse. His style and manner, both 
of which were illiberal, were imitated by Ridpath, 
Defoe, Dunton, and others of the opposite party, 
and Toland pleaded the cause of atheism and im- 
morality in much the same strain ; his subject 
seemed to debase his diction, and he ever failed 
most in one, when he grew most licentious in the 
other. 

Towards the end of queen Anne's reign, some 
of the greatest men in England devoted their time 
to party, and then a much better manner obtained 
in political writing. Mr. Walpole, Mr. Addison, 
Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Steele, and many members 
of both houses of parliament, drew their pens for 
the whigs ; but they seem to have been over- 
matched, though not in argument, yet in writing, 
by Bolingbroke, Prior, Swift, Arbuthnot, and the 
other friends of the opposite party. They who 
oppose a ministry have always a better field for 
ridicule and reproof than they who defend it. 

Since that period, our writers have either been 
encouraged above their merits or below them. 
Some who were possessed of the meanest abilities 
acquired the highest preferments, while others, 
who seemed born to reflect a lustre upon their 
age, perished by want or neglect. More, Savage, 
and Amherst, were possessed of great abilities, yet ! 
they were suffered to feel all the miseries that j 
usually attend the ingenious and the imprudent — 
that attend men of strong passions, and no phleg- 
matic reserve in their command. 

At present, were a man to attempt to improve 
his fortune or increase his friendship by poetry, 
he would soon feel the anxiety of disappointment. 
The press lies open, and is a benefactor to every 
sort of literature, but that alone. 

I am at a loss whether to ascribe this falling off 
of the public to a vicious taste in the poet, or in 
them. Perhaps both are to be reprehended. The 
poet, either dryly didactive, gives us rules which 
might appear abstruse even in a system of ethics, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



307 



those times of the empire in which the people 
retained their liberty, they were governed by 
custom; when they sank into oppression and 
tyranny, they were restrained by new laws, and 
the laws of tradition abolished. 

As getting the ancients on our side is half a 
victor)', it will not be amiss to fortify the argu- 
ment with an observation of Chry'sostom's : ' That 
the enslaved are the fittest to be governed by 
laws, and free men by custom ' Custom partakes 
of the nature of parental injunction ; it is kept by 
the people themselves, and observed with a willing 
obedience. The observance of it must, therefore, 
be a mark of freedom; and coming originally to a 
state from the reverenced founders of its liberty, 
will be an encouragement and assistance to it in 
the defence of that blessing: but a conquered 
people, a nation of slaves, must pretend to none 
of this freedom, or these happy distinctions ; 
having, by degeneracy, lost . all right to their 
brave forefathers' free institutions, their masters 
will in policy take the forfeiture ; and the fixing a 
conquest must be done by giving laws, which 
may every moment serve to remind the people 
enslaved of their conquerors; nothing being 
more dangerous than to trust a late subdued 
I people with old customs, that presently upbraid 
their degeneracy, and provoke them to revolt. 

The wisdom of the Roman republic in their 
veneration for custom, and backwardness to in- 
troduce a new law, was perhaps the cause of their 
long continuance, and of the virtues of which 
they have set the world so many examples. But 
to shew in what that wisdom consists, it may be 
proper to observe, that the benefit of _new written 
laws is merely confined to the consequences of 
their observance; but customary laws, keeping 
up a veneration for the founders, engage men in 
the imitation of their virtues as well as policy. 
To this may be ascribed the religious regard the 
Romans paid to their forefathers' memory, and 
their adhering for so many ages to the practice of 
the same virtues, which nothing contributed more 
to efface than the introduction of a voluminous 
body of new laws over the neck of venerable custom. 

The simplicity, conciseness, and antiquity of 
custom, give an air of majesty and immutability 
that inspires awe and veneration ; but new laws 
are too apt to be voluminous, perplexed, and inde- 
terminate, whence must necessarily arise neglect, 
contempt, and ignorance. 

As every human institution is subject to gross 
imperfections, so laws must necessarily be liable 
to the same inconveniences, and their defects soon 
discovered. Thus, through the weakness of one 
part, all the rest are liable to be brought into con- 
tempt. But such weakness in a custom, for very 
obvious reasons, evade an examination ; besides a 
friendly prejudice always stands up in their favour. 

But let us suppose a new law to be perfectly 
equitable and necessary ; yet, if the procurers of 
it have betrayed a conduct that confesses by-ends 
and private motives, the disgust to the circum- 
stances disposes us, unreasonably indeed, to an 
irreverence ol the law itself; but we are indul- 
gently blind to the most visible imperfections of 
an old custom. Though we perceive the defects 
ourselves, yet we remain persuaded, that our wise 
forefathers had good reason for what they did; 
and though such motives no longer continue, the 



or, triflingly volatile, writes upon the most unwor- 
thy subjects ; content, if he can give music instead 
of sense ; content, if he can paint to the imagination 
without any desires or endeavours to affect : the 
public, therefore, with justice, discard such empty 
sound, which has nothing but a jingle, or what is 
worse, the unmusical flow of blank verse to re- 
commend it. The late method, also, into which 
our newspapers have fallen, of giving an epitome 
of every new publication, must greatly damp the 
writer's genius. He finds himself, in this case, 
at the mercy of men who have neither abilities 
nor learning to distinguish his merit. He finds 
his own composition mixed with the sordid trash 
of every daily scribbler. There is a sufficient spe- 
cimen given of his work to abate curiosity, and 
yet so mutilated as to render him contemptible. 
His first, and perhaps his second work, by these 
means sink, among the crudities of the age, into 
oblivion. Fame, he finds, begins to turn her back; 
he therefore flies to profit, which invites him, and 
he enrols himself in the lists of dulness and of 
avarice for life. 

Yet there are still among us men of the greatest 
abilities, and who, in some parts of learning, have 
surpassed their predecessors. Justice and friend- 
ship might here impel me to speak of names 
which will shine out to all posterity, but prudence 
restrains me from what I should otherwise eagerly 
embrace. Envy might rise against every honoured 
name I should mention, since scarcely one of them 
has not those who are his enemies, or those who 
despise him. „ 



CUSTOM AND LAWS COMPARED. 
What, say some, can give us a more contemptible 
idea of a large state, than to find it mostly go- 
verned by custom ; to have few written laws, and 
no boundaries to mark the jurisdiction between 
the senate and the people ? Among the number 
who speak in this manner is the great Montes- 
quieu, who asserts that every nation is free in 
proportion to the number of its written laws, and 
seems to hint at a despotic and arbitrary conduct 
in the present king of Prussia, who has abridged 
the laws of his country into a very short compass. 

As Tacitus and Montesquieu happen to differ 
in sentiment upon a subject of so much import- 
ance (for the Roman expressly asserts, that the 
state is generally vicious in proportion to the 
number of its laws,) it will not be amiss to 
examine it a little more minutely, and see 
whether a state, which, like England is bur- 
dened with a multiplicity of written laws, or 
which, like Switzerland, Geneva, and some other 
republics, is governed by custom and the deter- 
mination of the judge, is best. 

And to prove the superiority of custom to 
written law, we shall at least find history con- 
spiring. Custom, or the traditional observance 
of the practice of their forefathers, was what 
directed the Romans as well in their public as 
private determinations. Custom was appealed to 
in pronouncing sentence against a criminal, where 
part of the formulary was more majorum. So 
Sallust, speaking of the expulsion of Tarquin, 
says, mutato more, and not lege mutato ; and 
Virgil, pacisque imponere morem. So that, in 
T 



308 



goldsmith's miscellaneous works. 



benefit will still go along with the observance, 
though we do not know how. It is thus the Ro- 
man lawyers speak: Non omnium, quae a ma- 
joribus constituta sunt, ratio reddi potest, et 
ideo rationes eorum quae constituuntur inquiri non 
oportet, alioquin multa ex his quae certa sunt 
subvertuntur.' 

Those laws which preserve to themselves the 
greatest love and observance, must needs be best ; 
but custom, as it executes itself, must be neces- 
sarily superior to written laws, in this respect, 
which are to be executed by another. Thus, 
nothing can be more certain, than that numerous 
written laws are a sign of a degenerate commu- 



nity, and are frequently not the consequences o. 
vicious morals in a state, but the causes. 

Hence we see how much greater benefit it 
would be to the state, rather to abridge than in- 
crease its laws. We every day find them increasing ; 
acts and reports, which may be termed the acts of 
judges, are every day becoming more voluminous, 
and loading the subject with new penalties. 

Laws ever increase in number and severity, 
until they at length are strained so tight as to 
break themselves. Such was the case of the 
latter empire, whose laws were at length become 
so strict, that the barbarous invaders did not 
bring servitude, but liberty. 



THE END. 



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